


And They Say Size Doesn't Matter

by ChocoChipBiscuit



Series: Jinx [7]
Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 3
Genre: Anal Fisting, Anal Play, Communication, Cunnilingus, Dirty Talk, F/M, Fallout Kink Meme, Kink Meme, Massage, Masturbation, Mutually Unrequited, Oral Sex, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Playful Sex, Relationship Advice, Sex Toys, Size Difference, Size Kink, Spanking, super mutant
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-17
Updated: 2016-03-17
Packaged: 2018-01-12 19:11:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 38,885
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1196277
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChocoChipBiscuit/pseuds/ChocoChipBiscuit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of various Fawkes/F!LW smut stories. The vast majority come from filling various prompts at the kink meme.</p><p>Most are relatively canon to Jinxed. Emphasis on 'relatively.'</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Mutually Solo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fawkes and the little Wanderer are thinking of eachother during some very private activities.

The little wanderer leans heavily against Fawkes as they walk up the slope to her Megaton house, Dogmeat trailing behind them. He briefly considers carrying her, but before he can think of how to say it without belittling her, they are at the door and crossing the threshold.

“Everything just like we left it, Fawkes. A complete and utter _mess_ ,” she says affectionately, slumping against his arm. Her pale blue eyes flick about lazily, taking everything in. The strangely lit miniature trees at the entrance, the gaudy red heart-shaped bed on the center of the floor (and Fawkes uncomfortably remembers how long it took to convince Moira she needed a bed sized for a super mutant because Fawkes _is_ a super mutant, not because of new carnal activities)…

“Welcome home, madame!” Wadsworth exclaims, floating down the stairs. Dogmeat races up to sniff at the robot, which the butler pointedly ignores. At least, Jinx claims he is capable of ignoring things; Fawkes suspects that she is merely anthropomorphizing Wadsworth’s lack of programmed responses to his ‘owner’ having a pet.

Jinx—Wanderer, savior of the Wastes, adventurer of roads beyond imagination—stands with her hands on her hips, looking about the house with an expression of pure and utter contentment. “Maybe it’s not pretty, but it’s _home_. I’d rather rest here than risk being poked at by more Brotherhood doctors.”

“I apologize,” Fawkes demurs, standing aside and letting her inspect her home with possessive pride. “You received a much higher dose of radiation than Sarah Lyons, and I was desperately afraid you might not…”

“Yeah. And that was a nice excuse for them to play guinea pig with me,” she says flippantly, eyes carefully blank as she recites, “’Oh, let’s see if this kills Jinx! What, no? Okay! Let’s try it on Lyons!’” with a dismissive hand-flapping gesture.

“Star Paladin Cross had undergone similar procedures,” Fawkes feels obligated to point out, cheeks growing heated with a purple flush. Already awake less than a day, and she has gone back to making him feel more awkward and uncertain of himself than ever. She is a valuable companion and friend, but she also practically _feeds_ on brutal emotional honesty. He remembers she had once disparagingly mentioned she had all the emotional boundaries of an amorous molerat. At the time, he had thought it mere jest; the more he gets to know her, the more apt the comparison seems.

She grins up, teeth flashing a startling white against the darkness of her face. “Oh, I know. But I just… the last thing I remember clearly was entering the code for the purifier. Then next thing I knew, I woke up with a body full of hardware and new reflexes and reactions to everything. I was _terrified_ the Brotherhood put a control chip in me, you know.” Clenching her fists tightly, she releases them in an explosion of fingers while mouthing ‘boom.’

“I observed, and had Cross confirm what they were doing was legitimate,” Fawkes says flatly, trying not to rise to the bait.

Finally realizing she needled him too far, she sighs, squeezing her arms about his waist in an uncomfortably intimate gesture. “I just… it’s a lot to take in, Fawkes. I’m glad to be alive—selfishly, deliriously glad—so I’m sorry if I’m coming across as ungrateful. I thought I was going to die in there. Every minute above ground is both precious and painful.”

He pats her back gently, uneasily, trying not to think about the fact that he could likely snap her in half with one misplaced gesture. Jinx is so small, after all—wiry and fragile, even if her personality could fill a room.

“And on the plus side…” she continues, heedless of his ruminations, “Metal-laced bones, accelerated healing factor—those perks will come in useful, at least. Forget radiation; I could probably take a friggin’ _bullet_ to the head  now.”

“Let’s not test that.”

She chuckles, sticking her tongue out at him. “C’mon. I might be crazy, but I don’t have a death wish. Mind sizzling up some centuries-old Salisbury steak while I get my hair done?”

He agrees readily—cooking is a small enough price to pay for having her back—and listens to Wadsworth process through several ‘jokes’ while clipping at Jinx’s hair. Fawkes is always somewhat amazed at how quickly the robot is able to do his duties, so that by the time dinner is ready (with two Nuka Colas on the side) Jinx’s hair is freshly cropped, the sides shaved while her central mop of hair is re-dyed brilliant scarlet.

“Hey. Looks more like me now, huh?” she asks, grinning like a deathclaw.

He inclines his head in agreement, then they start eating. At least being in a coma for two weeks hasn’t dampened Jinx’s appetite any; she almost moans with delight (another uncomfortably intimate sound) as she swigs at the dark cola, sighing and rocking back and forth in her chair.

“Geez, none of their TPN feeds tasted this good,” she says, skewering another slice of her steak on a fork.

At least she seems more cheerful. They eat and talk for a bit, but Jinx tires more quickly than usual, and he has to help her stumble up the stairs to her bed. Dogmeat curls quietly in one corner of the room while she fumbles at her clothing. Fawkes is about ready to leave her to her sleep when she swallows, looking up at him with an expression he can’t quite read. Uncertainty, yes; from the hesitation in her shoulders and the way her eyebrows tilt, but there is something else he cannot fathom.

“Fawkes? Will you help me undress? I think… I think my fingers aren’t quite up to the buckles yet,” she adds quickly.

Poor young woman. Poor _girl_ , he hastily corrects himself. She is so young after all, barely more than a child despite all she’s been through.

“Certainly. But don’t worry, I am sure your strength will return. We can just rest here until you are completely well again,” he attempts to reassure her, unfastening her belt and pulling the jacket off her shoulders while attempting to keep his gaze averted. Trying so hard not to be aware of her small body, the softness of her skin, the way her nipples are just visible under the thin fabric of her shirt because she _never_ wears a bra, always laughing it off as being unnecessary…

She might be little more than a girl, but she is still a woman.

He practically flees downstairs as soon as her pants and jacket are off.

* * *

 

She nearly wants to cry when he runs downstairs, feeling much more like a stupid nineteen year old girl than a woman who came back from the dead. She shouldn’t have given the excuse about the buckles; she should have just said…

Said what? That she wants to be held for the night, cuddled close against all the uncertainties and fears that come in the dark? That seeing his face—the first thing she saw when waking out of the coma—had felt like a dream at first, wanting to reach out and touch him to make sure he didn’t dissolve away?

At least if they were camping, she could always make the excuse that her blanket’s a bit too thin, or that she’s feeling a chill. A way to sneak closer to him, nestling up against him and feeling that warm curl of happiness snake its way through her belly.

She can’t dance around it, not in the privacy of her own mind at least. Yes, she’s lonely; yes, she wants to be held and feel safe. But she also wants to get _fucked_. Maybe not their first night, but at least… at least to fool around a bit. Learn what his mouth tastes like, and see if she can make him blush when she nuzzles his neck. That would be nice.

A familiar warmth is tingling between her legs, and she reaches down with a sigh. All of the hardware that came installed when she woke up (and she remembers Cross trying so hard to be reassuring, letting her know that despite the metal-laced bones, the enhanced skin weave, the way they completely rewired her healing process and metabolism, everything would work just as well as before) makes her skin itch, a psychosomatic fear of something else crawling under her flesh, little gears and chips whirring away…

But at least her libido still works. That seems promising.

 _Well, if I can’t get laid, I might as well make sure everything’s still in working order,_ she decides, feeling a grin stretch across her face. At least this will make a nice end to the night.

She pulls her tank top over her head, the worn fabric so sheer as to be practically translucent. Her nipples are already puckering underneath, dark buds high and eager to be pinched, rolled between her fingers as she bites her lip to stay quiet. Fawkes probably isn’t asleep yet, so she’ll have to keep it low. Closing her eyes makes it easier to imagine her hands are his, squeezing and kneading the flesh gently, so gently—because she has no doubt that despite how big he is, he would never be anything but gentle.

Leaning back on the bed, she picks her hips up, inching her panties off. At least she doesn’t smell too bad—another uncomfortable thought, wondering just who had been giving her sponge baths while in her coma. One of the doctors? Star Paladin Cross? Fawkes…? That one would have been interesting. She can imagine him delicately wiping her down with a damp cloth, his face so carefully turned away while flushing purple, mouth parted and breathing slowly, trying not to focus on the moisture beading across her skin…

Oh yeah. She can imagine those big hands touching her breasts, feather-light and tracing over the areola, cupping the lean flesh beneath and his tongue flicking over her neck. Working his way down, kissing her belly and her thighs and moving to that sweet spot. Lost in the fantasy, she twines her hands further down, the soft curls of her pubic hair tickling against the palm of her hand. Without thinking about it, she gives a low moan.

* * *

 

Fawkes lies flat on his back, staring at the ceiling and trying his best to count prime numbers.

 _Two_ , _three, five…_

There are at least five scars on her torso, thin lines fading away until they are little more than ripples on dark skin. He remembers clearly counting them, from inspecting her after she had gone too close to the edge of a cliff and almost fallen on the yao guai they were hunting…

Thinking of her torso makes him think of the gentle dip of her navel. And that makes him think of that game she was trying to teach him, the one where you tried drinking a shot off someone’s body. And _that_ makes him think of her belly, warm and soft against his head, her thighs wrapped around his neck and her breasts pressed against his skull as she tried riding on his shoulders, claiming it was just another game. And _that_ …

She is a woman. But she is little more than a child, and he burns to think of how each innocent action prompts such a fire in his loins. She might have more experience in the world outside Vault 87, but remains torturously naïve on other matters. Ever-trusting, comfortable in her own skin and heedless of how discomforting it is to watch her walk upstairs, her shirt already halfway over her head before she even reaches the privacy of her own room.

He can’t keep thinking of that. It feels disrespectful. Shameful.

So he starts trying to count the prime numbers again.

_Seven, eleven, thirteen, seventeen…_

A soft moan echoes through the house, drifting from upstairs and caressing his ear as surely as if she were lying next to him, kissing his neck.

No. Enough of that. She is probably having a nightmare. He should go up and offer comfort, perhaps a glass of brahmin milk—

No. A tauntingly familiar ache is settling in, warmth and swelling as blood collects below the waist. The first time it had happened, weeks before—before the nightmare at the purifier but after she had tried so hard to teach him all those silly games—he had nearly panicked, locking himself in a private room to stare at his burgeoning erection. The swelling tumescence shocked him, since he had _never_ remembered any sort of sensation like that; an existence of prolonged isolation punctuated by regular beatings had done little for his desire to explore that part of himself, and quite frankly, he was no longer even certain his equipment _worked_ …

But it does work. And going up to visit her now would tempt him beyond measure.

She deserves better than that.

When the moan stops, he exhales a slow sigh of relief. Hopefully she will sleep calmly for the rest of the night.

In the meantime… well. His hand edges below the covers, unzipping his pants but not quite daring to actually take them off. His hand fastens about his girth, gently stroking up and down, savoring the sweet torment of the slow friction. There are few enough opportunities to pleasure himself that he may as well take advantage of this.

Closing his eyes helps shut out the rest of the world, settling himself into the same guilty fantasy that occupied him last time, and the time before that. And the time before that; the details may change, but the core remains the same.

It’s Jinx. It’s always been Jinx. Whether on top of him, smiling devilishly and lowering herself on his cock, or wrapping her lips about him, hot and wet and painfully tight, or just holding him, small hands so warm and soft. Even with the calluses from her wandering lifestyle, her hands are always so soft compared to his own.

This time, he imagines her sweet and vulnerable—and this too makes him feel uneasy. She might be small, but she is always so strong and resilient, always fighting to prove herself. Fetishizing her innocence makes him feel even dirtier, but that does not make the fantasy any less appealing. She is sweet and vulnerable, so grateful for his company, for him standing guard over her over the two weeks of her coma…

 _“Fawkes, I never said thank you,_ ” the dream-Jinx whispers in his ear, and he imagines her settling beside him in the bed, tongue tracing over his neck.

 _“But you did,”_ he protests.

_“Never properly. Never like I wanted to. Come on…” She kisses him in earnest now, her mouth sweeter than Nuka Cola, lips tasting faintly of salt and spice, and she smells like dusty roads and freedom…_

She doesn’t _have_ to thank him, of course. But she _wants_ to. That’s an important part of the fantasy too, just as important as _her hands playing over his stomach, her warm breath on his hips as she burrows beneath the covers, licking and squirming…_

His breath catches, and he picks up the speed.

* * *

 

She masturbates with both hands, shameless and hedonistic as she tries chasing an orgasm that dances ever out of reach. The fingers of her left hand are playing over her clit, rubbing in a frantic semi-circle that makes her twitch and bite her lip to keep from crying out, while two fingers of her right hand are buried deep in her pussy. Fawkes’ hands are big, so big—she thinks about trying to slide another finger in, trying to mimic the way he would feel, but oh it feels so nice rubbing against her sweet spot, fingers crooking and she just _wants_ , she wants and wants…

Fawkes. She wants—

“Fawkes,” she cries, half moan and half sigh as she peaks. She muffles the sound against her pillow, unable to stay silent as the sweet tension flows out of her.

* * *

 

He is about to come, feeling his legs tense and his hips lift, almost bucking… and when he hears his own name from upstairs _that_ is the last trigger. Biting his lip hard enough to taste copper-sweet blood, he swallows a primal roar as his cock twitches, spattering thick white seed against the underside of the blanket.

His name. She was calling his name. Through the hazy cloud of lust and satisfaction, his alarm bells are ringing. Another nightmare?

 _No_ , he realizes, shivering with shock. She sounded— happy. _Very_ happy. People can moan during more than nightmares…

He wipes himself clean as best he can, zipping up his pants. The simple, mechanical movements give him something else to focus on, something to keep him from simply sitting back in a dazed stupor. She called his name. She was… possibly doing something very similar to himself. Was she even aware she had called him? Or was that an invitation? Or…?

Swallowing, he realizes he will never know unless he goes up to ask. So he pushes the blankets aside and walks up the stairs, feeling the dull echo of each footfall through the darkened house.

“Jinx?” he calls at her door, thinking that surely she must hear the drumming in his chest.

* * *

 

Oh damn. She had called his name. She had actually _called_ it, not just said it in the nice safe privacy of her own head. She had thought about it of course, of just marching down and telling him, but being caught like this…

She exhales shakily, wiping her hands against the sheets. “Yes?”

A long pause. Then, with a voice that sounds somewhat like how she feels, half anticipation, half trepidation, he asks, “Do you need some company?”

She wants to laugh now, caught wordless with relief.

“Yes.”


	2. Fawkes Asks Nova

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fawkes asks Nova for advice on fitting big things into little things.

She knows he’s coming before he even enters the door. Only one person in Megaton has that heavy tread, thick enough to make the drinks dance in their glasses and sending a dull reverberation through the back of her ears.

The sight of his yellow-green face as he ducks through the doorway—moving sideways, since he nearly fills the space—only provides unneeded confirmation. The heavy Gatling laser looks toy-like against his massive frame.

“Hello, Fawkes,” Nova calls, taking a break from the cigarette she’s nursing.

The super mutant—she’d thought she’d _never_ see the day where one was welcome in Megaton, but go figure—simply inclines his head, raising his hand to wave. She’s heard him speak before, but despite his intellect, the slow, broken cadence of his speech makes him sound little better than the other super mutants roaming the Wastes. Somewhat self-conscious of that, he usually lets the girl from Vault 101 do the talking in public.

Fawkes looks uneasy, and restlessly shifts his weight from one leg to another.

“Nova. I wish to speak with you,” he says haltingly. He has little volume control, even his equivalent of a whisper creating a booming sound wave that echoes through the small saloon.

“We’re talking right now, aren’t we?” the prostitute says with another drag on her cigarette. She exhales smoke slowly through her nose. “What’s on your mind, big guy?”

“Wait just a moment there,” the familiar, hated pseudo-Irish brogue cuts in. “Now me lad, if you’re not drinking or buying other services, my dear Nova’s time can be best spent with other gentlemen. I have a business to run, and her time is my money.”

Moriarty emerges from his back room, arms crossed in front of him as he scowls ferociously. Nova’s had enough experience dealing with the old miser that she recognizes it’s not true annoyance—or at least not yet—but just an attempt to shake up some business.

To Nova’s surprise, the super mutant just nods amicably.

“Privacy would suit my purposes far better,” he agrees. Her jaw drops slightly, the cigarette dangling from her fingers before she coughs and starts her usual business spiel.

“Well, the going rate’s 120 caps for privacy. Whatever you want to do with that time is… our own business,” she says huskily, the throatiness more the remnants of her last smoke than her usual come-hither acting. While servicing a super mutant would certainly provide some _interesting_ challenges, she doesn’t get the ‘desperate and horny’ vibe from him.

Fawkes grunts and passes the caps to Moriarty, then docilely follows Nova up the stairs. Meek as a lamb, he trails her into the large bedroom, closing the door behind them. Nova sits on the bed, patting the mattress more out of muscle memory than true invitation. Thankfully, Fawkes elects to sit on the floor instead of the bed. She’s not sure it could handle his weight, to be honest.

“Nova, I have… questions, I wish to ask,” he states quietly. Quietly for him, at least.

“Well, you can certainly ask Nova,” she says with a bright smile. She stubs out the cigarette, deciding that if he’s paying for her time, she might as well give him enough decent conversation to make it worth the money.

“I… realize this may be awkward, but I have questions concerning physical intimacy between myself and a woman. I am well aware of the mechanics, but there is a certain size disparity I am uncertain of how to address.”

At least any embarrassment he might have is masked by his usual halting speech. She can’t even tell if he’s blushing, with that green face.

“Who’s the lucky lady, Fawkes?” she asks lightly, trying to downplay her own interest. Not that she doesn’t already have an inkling, but she can’t resist satisfying her curiosity.

“Jinx.”

Ah, the Vault girl. Despite her usual jaded façade, Nova wants to cheer—both for Fawkes and the so-called ‘Lone Wanderer.’ If any dame was crazy enough to give it a shot with a super mutant, it would have to be her. And if any man wanted to keep her interest, he’d have to be smart and just as tough as her; both hard to find. With all the crap the kid’s been through and done for the rest of the Capital Wasteland, Nova figures she deserves a good time.

At least, assuming green lover-boy ever figures out how to give it to her.

Now, _this_ , Nova can help with.

She resists the urge to start grinning like a deathclaw, and just nods calmly. Coolly. _Professionally_.

“Well, there are plenty of ways to be physically intimate with a woman, Fawkes. If you’re uncertain, perhaps I should start with the basics…?” she allows her voice to trail off, trying not to immediately dive into all the advice she wishes someone had given _her_ first lay. By Atom, going into an actual _lecture_ would probably just reveal far too much of her own tastes, and not give as much information on how to please Jinx.

He just nods hopefully.

“My first piece of advice: don’t rush. Jinx might be tough, but it’s going to be very new for both of you. Don’t even think of it as just sex right away; a lot of it’s going to be about making her comfortable while all your clothes are still on. What does she like, after a long day of being a hero?”

“Dinner. Washing up,” he slowly rumbles.

Regular bathing is a luxury, with most clean water going towards drinking, but Nova can certainly relate to how much _better_ it feels with the grime washed off. At least her work means Moriarty shells out the caps for her to take a shower more regularly than most can afford to.

“So let her clean off—and see if you can do it too, by the way—and get her a nice meal. Maybe even get the meat yourself if you can. Just take your time together. Laugh. Have a good time. Does she know you’re interested yet?”

Fawkes pauses, and for a moment Nova worries that she has pressed him too far.

“I… am sure our interest is mutual.” He does not elaborate further, but Nova decides this is not the time to pry more details out.

“Good! That’s half the battle, right there. I know she drinks, but try to avoid her getting smashed. You want her to remember the nice time you’re going to have together, not the raging headache she might get the next day. I know this all sounds very basic, but the most important part is really just taking your time. You’re not paying her for it, and you’re going to want her to come back for more,” Nova urges, hoping that he won’t be offended by how much she keeps repeating that point.

Fawkes, bless him, just nods thoughtfully.

“Remember, you want her to be relaxed and comfortable, but not so relaxed she’s going to fall asleep right away. Maybe give her a massage; if you’re doing that, try to make sure you’re mixing in both soothing and stimulating moves. You got that?” She’s proud of that last phrase; she dredged it out of a prewar book about sex, and had found the book itself useful. Unfortunately, she has long since traded it for Jet, or she might have given it to Fawkes just now.

His lips purse, and he shakes his head in embarrassment. “I fear you lost me,” he admits.

“Pass me your hand,” she orders. He does so obediently, and Nova briefly wonders if she should even be having this whole discussion with him. If he obeys orders so well, maybe she should just tell the vault kid to order him to do _exactly_ whatever she wants…

Intriguing thought, but Jinx isn’t here. Fawkes is.

She presses her thumbs into the meaty pads of his hands, and starts with long, luxurious strokes. His hands are thick and calloused, making her decide to offer him a small pot of lotion on the way out. Unless he does something about that roughness, any massage he gives is going to feel like rubbing sandpaper.

“Feel that? Soothing. Releases tension. Gets you relaxed. What I do for johns I just want to fall asleep quickly. But now…” She starts changing the tempo, working in tight, circular motions and rubbing briskly up and down. “Stimulating. Still feels good, but ‘wakes up’ the muscles. If she falls asleep during this, you’re doing something wrong.”

“Ah!” he exclaims, realization dawning. For such a smart person, this feels like a real revelation, and Nova is unable to restrain her own grin. If nothing else, at least she gave him one good tip.

“Take her lead on what she wants, or where she wants it. But that’s an idea to get her started. Popular spots are the back, her ass, her thighs… just wherever she wants to be touched, or you want to touch her.”

“Everywhere,” he murmurs. Now she actually _can_ see him blush, cheeks turning a mottled purple color.

“Hold on to that feeling, big guy! Dames like enthusiasm!” Nova purrs. “If she _really_ likes what you’re doing, take that as an invitation to start touching everywhere. She’s a talky girl, and I bet she’ll tell you what she likes. Go for kisses—closed mouth first, until you both know what you’re doing—and the breasts and belly. Don’t just go pawing through her underwear until she’s revved up for you.”

Fawkes looks up sheepishly, giving his broad shoulders a helpless shrug. “I still think we would not… fit.”

“Remember what I said about going slow?” Nova scolds, tapping her index finger to her nose in a teasing gesture that removes any sting. “You’re still jumping ahead. There’s a lot you can do with just your hands and mouth. As for fitting… it might take a while, but I’m sure you can manage. Women have been shoving babies out of their crotches since time began, and unless you’re packing something bigger than a baby—“

Still flushed, Fawkes shakes his head.

“—then there’s no problem. It might not be _comfortable_ at first, but that’s what taking it slow is for. Use those fingers of yours. Hell, those are thicker than some of the dicks I’ve slept with. Don’t even worry about sticking it in her the first night you try. Think of it… as a project.” There. That ought to appeal to the scientist and egghead in both of them. “Something fun for you two to work on together. And there’s still plenty of ways to have fun along the way.”

And so she shows him, cracking open a mutfruit for him to practice licking, miming fingering motions for him into her closed fist. While hesitant, he’s a quick learner, and Nova starts speculating on just what he might do for a living if he ever gets tired of trailing after Jinx like a lost puppy. Sure, he looks like a monster, but being good with his hands and mouth could make up for a lot. Though there is still one important thing to discuss.

“Do you know what you’ll do to prevent children? At least until you decide you’re ready for them?” she asks frankly.

“It is a non-issue,” he grunts. Correctly interpreting her skeptical look, he elaborates. “Super mutants are sterile.”

Nova briefly wonders just how he knows that before deciding that some questions may be best left unanswered.

“…well, that takes care of that, then. To be honest, I’m just giving you some basics—you’ll have to listen to her to know what she really wants. I’ll always be glad to give you—either of you—a refresher if you want it, or go over other things,” she says, realizing that she has just spent more time with Fawkes than she has with many of her own clients. Unlike her johns, most of who aren’t looking for an extended experience, Fawkes has been trying to get as much _education_ out of this as possible.

“I appreciate it,” Fawkes says softly. “I really do. I know I have taken up much of your time, so please take this. As a gift,” he adds, eyes pleading with her to take it as a token of appreciation, not just an extra payment for her time. He hands over a string of caps, and while Nova doesn’t actually count, she estimates from the weight that it’s at least an additional hundred. A hundred that’s hers, not Moriarty’s.

It hurts to pass it back, it really does—but she tries returning the string, shoving it back. Fawkes just lets it drop onto the bed.

To smooth over the little not-argument they are silently having, she murmurs, “I hope you both have a good time.”

He smiles, the friendliness managing to overcome the nightmare look of his face, and nods.

“I hope we do too.”


	3. Fawkes Asked Nova

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fawkes gives Jinx a lovely massage. And sex.
> 
> Edited 3/3/15 for a less cringe-inducing sex scene.

Tonight’s the night.

Jinx feels Fawkes’ warm, solid presence behind her, wondering if he is watching her ass as she climbs the hill to their home in Megaton. She hopes so. She always watches his, at least.

Dogmeat takes a leak against the side of Jericho’s home, but thankfully the ex-raider isn’t around to yell at him. No matter how loud he threatens though, she knows her dog would be safe; no matter how annoyed her neighbor might get, even if _she_ didn’t shoot him for it, there would be a veritable lynch mob for the man that would shoot the pet of the woman who brought clean water to the Wasteland.

Clean water. Such a blessing. And now, with so much available, she won’t feel nearly as guilty about her favorite luxury.

 _Bathing_.

Not that it’s a real bath—or even a shower—but it does the job, and the luxurious feel of fresh skin after a long day traipsing the wastes… it beats the high of any drug, even Mentats.

She hasn’t touched a Mentat in months.

Well aware that her thoughts are chasing in circles, she gives Fawkes a bright smile as she fumbles with the lock to their house, her hands trembling like dust in the wind.

“I was thinking maybe we clean up first? Then get some dinner over at the Stahls’ place…?” she asks, the words pouring out far too quickly. Edgy. Always a fast talker, getting nervous makes the words pour out even faster. Briefly, her pale blue eyes lock on his yellow-green ones.

“That sounds lovely,” Fawkes says in his slow, booming voice, sending shivers racing up her neck. The good kind, like reading a favorite book, not the bad kind, like turning to find a deathclaw breathing down your neck…

Her thoughts are twisting again, and she hastens to corral them back. She opens the door, stepping through. Wadsworth gives his usual mechanically cheerful greeting, and she waves to him out of habit more than anything else. Suddenly, the giant, heart-shaped bed (which she had bought from Moira _solely_ because it was the only bed big enough for a super mutant, regardless of what the eccentric inventor initially thought) seems too loud, too provocative.

“Would you like to… help me wash?” Jinx asks, swallowing with her suddenly dry mouth.

“Would you like me to?” Fawkes asks in exchange.

She searches his face for any trace of irony, wondering if he is trying to spare her feelings, and maybe this crazy venture is just something he’s tolerating out of misguided pity. Dogmeat trots into the house, curling up in his favorite corner to chew on his teddy bear.

“Fawkes, I… this is something I really, really want to make sure of. I know we’re good together, we make great partners out in the Wastes, and we enjoy each other’s company, so it’s fine if we don’t have sex. I would still enjoy being with you anyway,” Jinx says, her eyes searching Fawkes’. “But I want… I want _you_ to want _me_. If you’re not sure, in any way, or would rather not, I’ll understand.”

 _And be horny as hell, but that’s what fingers are for_.

“You think I am not attracted to you?” he asks—slowly, as always, but there is an extra hesitancy there, one she can’t quite figure out how to parse.

Time to lay all her cards on the table.

“You are… very much a gentleman, so I’m afraid I might be misinterpreting your kindness. And I read the files in Vault 87, about the quasi-asexual state that the FEV converts the test subjects to. If you…”

Uncharacteristically, he interrupts her before she can continue with her rattling torrent of verbage.

“I am very much attracted to you, Jinx. You are a beautiful woman, and if I have seemed reticent, it has been out of fear of harming you. Or misinterpreting your kindness in turn. As for the effects of the FEV and its effects upon secondary sex characteristics, it has not had any sort of effect on my sexual function, other than—I suspect—sterility.” Even in his equivalent of a quiet hush, the words echo throughout the house. “My rationality has been hard-won, after years in isolation. In battle,” his voice catches, “I sometimes feel the primal part of me and I fear I may slip away. I would never want to inflict that on you.”

For Fawkes, this has been quite a speech. She has learned to read the emotional nuances in the halting patterns of his words, which day by day improves as he practices the art of conversation, and only finds tenderness in his gaze

“I trust you. With my back, with my life, with all my heart,” Jinx exclaims with a relieved sigh. She feels her cheeks getting warm, her over-thought rationalizations and excuses melting away with his affirmation. “I would _love_ you to help towel me off. If I may do the same for you?” she adds, a trace of nervousness creating an up-tilt at the end of her sentence.

Fawkes smiles in exchange, the warm expression transforming his coarse features from something out of a nightmare to something much more human. And something she finds incredibly attractive, feeling her body respond as she exhales a sigh of relief.

“That would be enjoyable.”

He helps her remove her leather combat armor—more of an excuse for both of them to be physically close than out of real need; she has been getting out of her leathers on her own for a while. If it had been the power armor, then she would definitely need assistance, but this had been a light day; very little need for power armor when mopping up raiders, and she hates the shell-like contraption otherwise.

Suddenly self-conscious of her grimy underwear, Jinx strips it off as quickly as possible, and stands naked before Fawkes. She feels the weight of his gaze traveling over her, moving from the smooth muscle of her shoulders down to her small breasts, the thin scars and faded wounds that trace her wiry abdomen, the dark curls covering her pubic mons—her natural hair color, unlike the Nuka-Cola truck red she has dyed her hair—and down the thin lines of her legs.

Feeling embarrassed, she masks it with a cocky grin and a teasing look over her shoulder, twisting to shake her butt at him. A friend long ago had commented she had a great ass, even if practically no tits, and playing it up helps her feel more comfortable with her boyish figure.

“Like it?” she asks, teasing vixen tones painted over virgin skittishness.

“Very much so,” he says appreciatively. He reaches out hesitantly, as if afraid she might break at his touch, and lightly runs one massive finger from the curve of her breast down to her thigh. She shivers, dancing back a little.

“Careful there, lover boy. You promised me dinner first,” she teases, starting to feel a bit more confident. It’s just sex, right? She’s already comfortable with him watching out for her in a gunfight, or using his body as a windbreak when camping in the wastes, so what does it matter being naked in front of him?

The answer comes back as he starts stripping. She helps peel the too-tight vault uniform from his broad shoulders, the eight-foot-plus super mutant towering over the petite girl from Vault 101. She has offered to get him other clothing, but since no armor could be made to fit him, he claimed he was more comfortable wearing these remnants of his past life. While Fawkes is too much of a gentleman to be deliberately flexing, his muscles bulge with each movement. The yellowish light casts shadows over the valleys of his bicep and shoulder, rippling over the tautness of his abdomen. If she had her father’s old medical books, she bet she could identify every single muscle on him as clearly as if it were an anatomical diagram.

When the pants come down, she gives a near-audible gulp. His legs and buttocks are equally muscular, yes, but those aren’t what have her attention. It’s his penis, which even flaccid, slaps against his thigh with a meaty sound. And as she watches, it starts stiffening, engorging itself with arousal.

How on earth would that thing even fit?

She has seen men naked before—even fumbled around a little—but never anyone as large as Fawkes. Even accounting for the fact that Fawkes literally towers over the largest of men, his cock is a monster in its own right, thick and long even in this semi-erect state.

Her mouth is hanging open, and Fawkes reaches to gently lift her chin with his thumb.

“We don’t have to do anything,” he murmurs. “We could just go out for dinner, and let that be it.”

“No, no!” she hastens to assure him, trying to feel some assurance herself. She wouldn’t mind just fumbling around with him, to be honest, but the idea of that massive thing inside her…

“…and there are plenty of things we can do with just our hands and mouths,” he adds. Jinx almost sings with relief, exhaling with a gusty sigh.

“I know that!” she retorts, reflexively defensive. She still can’t resist adding a wistful, “But you wouldn’t mind…?”

“Let’s just see what we both are comfortable with,” is his diplomatic response.

Washing up together is an interesting experience; sensual, but not as sexual as Jinx had been worried it might be. He starts with rinsing her hair, letting the water pour over her until the reddish hue is once again brilliant scarlet. Afterwards, it is hard to feel sexy with a puny little towel soaked in clean water passing around her body. The clean swathes left behind almost glow in contrast to the griminess of the rest of her, and Fawkes carefully washes away the accumulated layers of sweat, dirt, and dried blood. He pauses over her breasts, locking his eyes with her as if for permission before delicately swabbing over them. Her nipples pucker in response, perking upwards as she gives an involuntary whimper, both from arousal and the pleasant shock of cool water over her body.

“Not yet. Let’s have dinner first,” he says slowly, a teasing echo of her own joke from earlier. With shock, Jinx realizes that he must be able to smell her arousal. _She_ can certainly smell it, the musky scent between her legs wafting upwards as she feels her juices starting to flow.

“Well, I’m only going to dinner if you scrub off too,” she retorts, slapping his hand imperiously. “Gimme that towel.”

She rinses it out in the tub, and uses a dab of fresh water to re-moisten it. With her weapon freshly loaded, she vigorously attacks the filth on Fawkes’ body, starting with his torso. He has to bend over for her to reach his shoulders and neck, scrubbing behind his ears with a teasing “trying to grow potatoes here, Fawkes?” before working her way over the familiar anatomy that she loves. Tracing the curves of his triceps, biceps, and forearms. Cleaning the rigid lines of his abdominal wall. And—her personal favorite—the backs of his shoulders, traveling down the line of his spine.

There is hesitation as she starts on his lower body. First, the easy parts—his buttocks, his legs, down to his ankles and feet. Then, the parts that give her more hesitation.

“I can wash my own genitals, if you prefer,” he murmurs after she pauses just a little too long. Always so considerate, always so sweet.

“No. I want to do this,” Jinx says firmly. And she does; even with her anxiety over his girth, she _does_ want to feel him.

His penis is quite clean, to be honest. Washing off with the cloth is just to help prevent body odor from building up, and an excuse to hold him in her hand. His shaft is broad, covering up over half of her palm as she examines it curiously. If it weren’t for the part of her terrified of taking him _inside_ , she would just enjoy this opportunity to explore his body.

“The scrotum too, please,” Fawkes requests in a pleasant voice. She might as well be holding his hand, for all the effect he’s allowing it to have on his features.

She washes his balls, feeling their weight and—surprisingly—how smooth they are compared to the rest of his body. Hairless. On impulse, she leans forward to brush her lips over them, pressing her cheek against the side of his penis.

“Dinner first,” he groans, reaching down to pick Jinx up even as she feels him respond to her touch. She dangles in his grasp, her belly tingling with unexpected happiness at the thrill of being picked up.

“Fine, spoilsport,” she responds, sticking her tongue out.

Wadsworth busies himself with her hair, trimming the split ends and making sure the hue is rocket-glare bright. She normally is rather bedraggled, keeping her Mohawk flattened back while exploring, but for tonight she requests something a bit more demure. Lady-like. Rolls and delicate curls, secured with a yellow ribbon scavenged from an empty house’s medicine cabinet. As girly as she can get it with the sides shaved, at least.

She has also set aside a special dress for this occasion, a somewhat clean prewar confection that had been washed until it gleams like summer sunlight. The light fabric whispers over her skin like a kiss, and she opts out of a bra. Not that she needs one, for her scant handful of flesh, but it makes her feel freer. More liberated. She hardly ever wears a bra these days anyway.

The effect is not lost on Fawkes. She would describe it as hunger except for the way she feels completely safe in his presence.

Feeling a bit foolish, she twirls, batting her eyes at him. She can’t resist playing it up, cooing in the most little-girl fashion she could dream of. This is just like dressing up, taking on a role that isn’t her. For now, at least, she’s not the Lone Wanderer, savior of the wastes, rescuer of the lost… she is just a young woman on a date. Her first real date, like all the Nuka-Cola advertisements had promised.

“You like it?” she breathes, tucking her hands under her chin as she pops one knee behind her.

“Love it,” he rumbles, sending flutters through the pit of her stomach. She keeps her eyes fixed on his, a silly smile stretching her cheeks.

“Good. Now you get yourself dressed, stud, and let’s head over to the Brass Lantern.”

 

. . .

 

Dinner at the Brass Lantern is lovely—though Jinx can’t actually bring herself to walk around unarmed, even in her pretty dress and with Fawkes for company. Instead, she holsters a laser pistol, letting the (relatively) slim lines of the weapon rest on her hip. Jenny Stahl gives only a raised eyebrow at Jinx’s dolled-up appearance before bursting into a loud peal of laughter.

Immediately, Jinx starts laughing as well, slinking back into familiar defensive mechanisms.

“Pretty stupid, huh?” she chuckles, wiping away a tear from the corner of her eye. Sorrow can easily be explained away as mirth in this case.

“No, you look lovely! It’s just a change, seeing the girl instead of all the armor,” Jenny hastens to assure her. “Special occasion? Big—“ and here her eyes flicker to Fawkes, standing silently in the background, “—date?”

“Yes,” Jinx hastens to say, immediately conscious of how Fawkes habitually stands back, ever aware of how others tend to mistrust him. “Big date.”

“Well, you’re in luck then!” Jenny exclaims brightly. “Got fresh softshell mirelurk in stock, so I can make your favorite! Two Nukas to start?”

Both Jinx and Fawkes nod, the super mutant awkwardly perching on a specially reinforced chair that the Stahls had made when he moved to Megaton.

Jenny bustles herself about the kitchen, fixing the mirelurk cakes that Jinx has a weakness for, as well as the squirrel that Fawkes favors. Out here, in public and realizing that her uncharacteristic clothing is drawing just as many stares as Fawkes’ presence, Jinx starts wondering if they had really thought this evening through.

She does what comes easiest when she’s nervous—talk.

“So… tell me something about yourself.” Her voice sounds forced and squeaky even to her, and she almost cringes.

Fawkes’ face is smooth, feigning obliviousness. “What do you wish to know?”

“Something I don’t already know,” is the easy response, like pouring cola from a glass.

His gaze drifts ahead, past the bottles that Jenny has placed in front of them. Absently, he takes a shallow sip.

“I have told you much of my life, my friend. You were the only person I knew outside of that accursed Vault 87,” he rumbles.

“So what did you do in your cell? I think I’d have gone _crazy_ in isolation,” she exclaims, tilting her body to the side and twirling one finger for emphasis.

“I would have as well, had they not left a working terminal in there. Through it, I was able to access many files of history, tactics, works of literature… it was of great importance in allowing me to regain my faculties.”

Before she can shut herself up, Jinx asks “But I didn’t see it in there…?”

“They destroyed it in order to taunt me,” he responds evenly, seeming unoffended. “If you had not arrived when you did, I would likely have succumbed to madness.”

Jinx blinks, an unexpected lump in her throat, and leans against his arm. Slowly, cautiously—not that she hasn’t done this in the wilderness a thousand times over, but this is the first time she’s relied on physical intimacy as a would-be lover, rather than traveling companion. “I didn’t know that.”

“I know. But you were still the first person I knew.” He tilts his face downward, gazing into her eyes with a measured weight. “And I owed you a great debt, which even now I can never repay.”

“Forget debts,” she says dismissively, waving her hands as if to banish any thoughts of debts between friends. “You have saved my life a hundred times over, Fawkes. I couldn’t have done everything without you.”

He snorts dismissively, but does not outright contradict her. Instead, he presses the next question. “Your turn. Tell me something I don’t know.”

“I… uh, had a pretty bad Mentat addiction. ‘Swhy I sell all my chems now, or hand ‘em to you,” she mumbles, hoping he won’t correctly interpret ‘back in the day’ as ‘right before we first met.’

He gives a grunting laugh, shaking his head. “That was easily deduced.”

“Really?” she asks, visibly deflating as she curls inward. Leaning against the bar with a groan, she is reminded that they are not alone as Doc Church, a few stools over, decides to butt in.

“Damn, girl, but the Mentats never did much for you. It was easier to tell when you were in withdrawal. Shakes, bloodshot eyes, dilated pupils…” the cranky doctor starts rattling off.

“…diaphoresis, tachycardia…” Fawkes chimes in, so straight-faced that Jinx is unsure of whether he is attempting to make a rare joke or simply listing symptoms.

“I was not that much of a mess!” Jinx defends hotly. “Yes, I took more than was good for me, but I cleaned up my act and still, you know, _kicked Enclave ass_!”

“That you did, girl. But you still function better clean. You never needed the Mentats. Just thought you did,” Doc Church states calmly. Despite the uncharacteristic, almost fatherly—her brain immediately shies away from that word and replaces it with a more neutral one—avuncular attention, he still narrows his eyes with a meaningful glare. “Still, if you ever haul your scrawny ass to my clinic again to be cleaned up, I will be sure to shoot you up with the biggest damn needle I can find.”

“Fine! Uncle! I yield, I yield!” Jinx cries, burying her head against the crook of Fawkes’ arm. The warm, clean scent of him— faintly spicy, sending some hot curl between her legs— makes her knees weak. Good thing she’s sitting down.

She hears Doc Church get up from his seat and saunter away, sparing her any further embarrassment.

“For what it's worth, Charon was the one who warned me to watch out for your addiction,” Fawkes says serenely, brushing a hesitant hand over her hair. Too light to presume ownership, almost just as if to reassure himself that she is still there, nestled against him. “He claimed he had spent too much time 'kicking you straight,' in his colorful vernacular, to let you backslide once out of his sight.”

Confused, Jinx lifts herself up, shaking her head. “We are talking about the same Charon? Tall, rangy ghoul? I held his contract, he left me—” She swallows abruptly, tears beading in memory of that bitter feeling of utter betrayal.

“I came for you. He had other motivations,” Fawkes speaks slowly, delicately moving his lips as if to enable more precise speech. “He does not hate you. He is simply not entirely subject to the same code that you or I follow.”

“...well, that's something,” the girl mutters. “When did you ever talk to him about it anyway?”

“When we spent the night in Underworld. I had some difficulty sleeping, and went to visit him at the Ninth Circle. We had a most provocative discussion.” His tone is even, too deliberately neutral to be anything but forced.

“What did you talk about?” Jinx can't resist probing, twitching her feet with a barely suppressed anxiety. Some lingering social paranoia is terrified they were discussing her in a less than flattering manner. Growing up as ‘the weird kid’ in a vault is one thing; possibly being badmouthed by her own trusted companions is another.

“I believe you still owe me something I do not yet know. Perhaps you will learn the contents of that discussion later,” Fawkes says serenely. Now she _knows_ he is teasing her, confirmed when she looks up to see the corners of his eyes crinkle.

“Fine. Pick your question.” Resignation drips from her words, and she gives Fawkes her best hang-dog expression, eyes soulfully looking upwards while her lower lip sticks out like a shelf. He elects to ignore her theatrics, instead pressing to his question.

“Why Jinx?”

“As a name?” she asks, momentarily confused.

His teeth flash in a grin. “Indeed.”

She twirls a strand of hair tightly around one finger. Immediately after doing so, she winces, realizing that she is mussing Wadsworth’s carefully-prepared coif.

“Butch called me that, when I was little. Jinx, like ‘bad luck’ or ‘no good.’ He got it in his head that it’d work better to give me a ‘smart’—” she mimes, making air quotes with her fingers, “—nickname instead of something like Fatty or Shorty. But I actually liked it, so made it stick.”

“That backfired rather dramatically,” Fawkes chuckles, the low sound sending subtle vibrations through her lower belly. Warm, happy ones. If only she didn’t keep worrying about the sex…

“So, why Fawkes then?” she asks, trying to distract herself with more chatter.

“He was a man who was willing to fight for what he believed in and died for it. He sought to overthrow a corrupt government, was betrayed, and then chose to die under his own terms rather than those of his oppressors. I felt a certain attachment to the name, and as I could not remember my own, I selected his,” he explains slowly, pausing briefly to thank Jenny for bringing their meal.

“I hope you don’t plan on dying soon!” Jinx chides, slicing the Mirelurk cakes into bite-sized morsels. “Rather grim, isn’t it?”

“I choose to think of it as hopeful. While they held celebrations to ostensibly celebrate his failure, I suspect at least a few celebrated his effort. Better to be martyred than forgotten, especially as I am unlikely to die outside of battle,” is the fatalistic response, shocking Jinx out of her joking manner.

“What do you mean?”

“I had been in that cell for… quite a while. These tattered vestments may have once been my original uniform. You have witnessed my immunity to radiation. From what I have seen on the terminals regarding the creation of myself and my fellow meta humans, our cells exhibit an extremely high turnover rate, granting us great regeneration. Biologically, we may well be immortal.” His eyes meet hers, gently waiting for the shocked outburst he expects.

And Jinx does not disappoint.

“Really? How do you fathom eternity, then?” she asks, voice catching. “It is one thing to stare at the stars and think about how brief life is, another to think about everyone else dying before your eyes. You could live to see civilization rise again, even…”

“One day at a time, much like all others. This is speculation, mind you. But I thought it was interesting, and perhaps you will live to prove me right.”

She snorts, using a dismissive wave of her hand to discreetly wipe away the tears forming in her eyes. “More like die to prove you right, if that’s to be believed.”

“No. Live. Like you lived when you activated the purifier.” Fawkes’ voice is hushed, near prophetic, eyes searching her face like seeking traces of the divine.

Blushing under his intense scrutiny, she forces an eyebrow upward—at least miming the appearance of casualness if not the reality— and just shakes her head.

“That was a fluke, Fawkes. I don’t know what happened. Maybe all that radiation I took before for Moira’s book, or that bottle of Rad-X I wolfed down, just in case.”

“Radiation induces mutation,” he insists. Now that he is repeating basic science at her, she _knows_ he is trying to make a point. “Instead of being ghoulified like so many others, perhaps it introduced changes to your genetic structure that altered your function, much like FEV…”

“I should have died,” she says bleakly, reflecting on those last few terrifying moments where she thought she would die literally in her father’s footsteps. “I don’t know why I didn’t.”

“And I don’t know why I did not become like my kin. Perhaps our situations are not so different.”The words hang in the air, and Jinx thoughtfully chews her mirelurk. Swallows.

“No. We’re both escapees from our Vaults, aren’t we?” she says quietly. “Both of us are survivors.”

“And you are strong, too. Far stronger than you give yourself credit for,” he adds, biting into a chunk of skewered squirrel and sliding it off its stick. “Especially with those upgrades from the Brotherhood.”

“Yeah. I activate the purifier, fall into a coma, wake up with an adamantine skeleton and cybernetics. When Lyons told me that, I was terrified my plumbing wouldn’t work. Nearly pissed myself trying to see if I could even still piss,” she mutters. “I still can’t believe you let them do that to me.”

“I thought it would further your odds of survival. If nothing else, it would take far more than a bullet to the head to kill you now.”

“Ugh. Let’s not test that,” Jinx says, twisting her lips downward and sticking her tongue out in disgust.

“Is there something else you would rather test?” His voice is gentle, carrying no lascivious undertones—but Jinx immediately thinks about all the long, hard things he could test her on. With. Under. Inwards.

“Hey, was the food off tonight?” Jenny asks worriedly, coming back to check on her customers. Jinx looks down to realize that she has barely been picking at her mirelurk, while Fawkes has finished his squirrel.

“Oh, no! It was good! I just don’t seem to have much of an appetite,” Jinx chuckles weakly, suddenly feeling very foolish in her silly dress without any sort of armor, her hair in curls that will just look like a nest of snakes by morning, and only her measly little laser pistol instead of a plasma rifle…

“Are you sure?” For a dizzying, lurching, pit-of-her-stomach-falling-in moment, Jinx thinks Jenny’s asking about… well, everything. Fawkes. Sex. Dead parents. But reality hits in, and Jinx remembers this is _just_ about the food.

Forcing an affable smile to her face and hoping she’s not offending Jenny, she chirps, “Yes! I’ll just take the leftovers and stick it in the fridge at home, all right?”

“Sure thing. Just bring the plate back when you’re done,” Jenny Stahl says worriedly, not entirely sold by Jinx’s lack of enthusiasm.

“I think Little Miss One-oh-one is just a bit tense,” comes a familiar husky drawl as Nova makes her languid way to the diner. Not bothering to wait for an invitation, she takes Jinx’s discarded fork and impales a bite on it, popping it into her own mouth. “Crazy, too. This stuff is delicious.”

“Moriarty let you out already?” Jenny asks, raising an eyebrow even as she pulls out a Nuka-Cola for the new arrival.

“It’s my break. And I figured a change of scene was better than staring at the radio,” the redhead yawns. “Much nicer things to stare at out here.”

Jinx cannot be quite sure—it is getting dark already—but Fawkes appears to be blushing somewhat at Nova’s appearance. Had Nova and Fawkes ever…? As soon as the thought rises up, she squashes it. Impossible. It had taken so long to warm Fawkes up to the idea of being more than friends that she finds it difficult to imagine him hiring a prostitute.

“Perhaps we best be going,” he says hesitantly, looking to her for affirmation.

“Just remember to take it slow, and make sure you both relax a bit!” is the last thing Jinx hears as she starts trudging back up the hill to their house.

“Nova is very concerned for us, isn’t she?” she says musingly. They had left the cakes at the Brass Lantern, letting Nova cadge the snack.

“Ah… she is,” is Fawkes’ distracted response.

Back in the house. Staring at the giant heart-shaped bed. Curtly giving Wadsworth an order to go upstairs and leave them be until morning. (The robot butler complies, but mutters snide imprecations as it does so.) Feeling more nervous than ever. Fumbling around wasn’t the same as sex, not really. Though would even having sex with another awkward teenager prepare her for Fawkes…?

“Jinx, may I give you a massage?”

It takes a moment to register his question, too lost in her flurry of nerves.

“A massage? …I would like that, but wouldn’t you rather…?” she asks, feeling stupid as she weakly mimes thrusting her finger into the closed loop of her thumb and forefinger.

“I would rather make you comfortable. And we do not need to have sex. Lying next to you and holding you all night—safe from raiders, Enclave stragglers, and everything else—would be enough for me,” he says, so slowly and calmly that it does not feel forced at all, even to Jinx’s anxious ears. “Even just touching you would be a privilege.”

“Well… if you put it that way, then privilege yourself away,” groans Jinx, falling face-first onto the massive bed with a soft ‘plop’. She elbow-crawls her way across the bed, resting her chin on the edge of a pillow. Dogmeat comes over to investigate, sniffing at her face and giving a happy lick. Giggling, she shoos him away. “Not now, silly dog. But… ooh….”

Fawkes’ massive hands are surprisingly soft, and she catches a faint scent of almonds. Lotion? He must have put some thought into this. Unsure whether to be touched—ha! — or even more nervous about any expectations he might have, she indecisively settles into just enjoying his ministrations.

His hands work expertly up her shoulders in long, sensuous strokes, broad thumbs rubbing into the tight muscles on her back and easing out the knots. She is floating languidly in a sea of sensation, feeling long-familiar aches and tension slip away under his fingers. He covers a lot of surface area with his hands, their size difference meaning that the palms rest halfway down her back from where he concentrates his efforts. Melting into the bed, she lets out a happy whimper.

“Do you like that?” he asks, even though her limp and puddled form must be answer enough.

“I love it. Give me more, Fawkes.”

He obliges, slipping his hands lower, to her hips and buttocks. He kneads her flesh like dough, working the deep tissue before focusing on the pinpoint aches, rubbing his thumbs over them as if cracking marbles. She shifts uncomfortably, realizing the fabric of her dress is bunching with his touch, and he correctly interprets her discomfort.

Quietly, he leans over to ask, “May I lift your dress?” His breath—warm and still smelling faintly of meat and spices—tickles the back of her neck, sending a gentle shiver through her body.

“Yes,” is her moaned response.

The fabric skims over her thighs, landing feather-light above her waist in a puddle of yellow cloth.

Now his skillful hands are on her ass, massaging and kneading her body into submission. Her moan rises in pitch as his touch grazes the lower curve of her bottom, right where it joins the thigh. And right where her panties end, the abrupt contact of his bare skin on her flesh causing her to moisten in anticipation.

“Will you take off my panties?” she asks boldly, the question a ragged gasp of delight.

His amused response of “yes,” comes scant moments before he complies. She lifts her hips, wiggling happily as he snakes the underwear off her. He only manages to get it past one ankle before it snags on the heel of her left foot, but she kicks it off with a giggle, playfully demanding more. Technically, this is just _touching_ , right? She’s not even fully naked, and this isn’t _sex_. It’s just playing…

He grins broadly, eagerly obeying as he digs his thumbs in, creating tight, circular pulses of movement that manage to wake her up, keying into her excitement in a way that the gentle strokes of earlier were unable to do. Not entirely conscious of what she’s doing, she starts squirming more, grinding her hips into the mattress while Fawkes’ hands caress her thighs.

“May I help?”

His bold question abruptly makes her realize that she is rubbing her clit against the covers, and she blushes nearly as red as the bedspread. Uncertain of what he plans on doing, Jinx just nods before realizing that a more vocal show of approval might be in order and squeaking, “Yes!”

This proves to be too much for Dogmeat, who runs upstairs in disgust, leaving the humanoids to their mating habits.

Not that Jinx cares, since Fawkes is gently nudging one hand under her groin, using his finger to rub her clit with surprising dexterity. This focused concentration ups the intensity from her feeble grinding on the bed, and she pushes downward against his palm as an orgasm starts trembling through her body, like bolts of electricity coursing through her veins. She cries out his name, too busy coming to care about if Dogmeat, if Jericho, if _anyone_ in Megaton can hear her scream. Upstairs, Dogmeat howls in dismay, his feral tones blending with her own.

“May I take off your dress?” he asks, leaning in to lay a kiss on the back of her neck.

“Do it!” she begs, rolling over and sitting up to help him remove it. Careful not to rip it, he lifts it slowly, letting her breasts perk under his approving gaze. As he brushes her cheek with his palm, she realizes with shock that it is damp and smells faintly of her juices.

“Fawkes, kiss me. And keep using your hands; I want to feel them everywhere!” she orders, a lascivious grin keeping the command hovering between teasing and demanding.

His eyes crinkle, lips turning upward in amusement. Rather than immediately obey, he kisses her cheek before murmuring, “May I put my fingers in you?” His erection is visible, creating a sizable bulge in those tight vault pants, and Jinx nods while staring. Fingers seem an acceptable alternative to fucking—more than acceptable, really, with as much fun as she’s having. But still, she should really repay the favor…

When she tries reaching for his trousers, Fawkes just shakes his head, demurring, “I want to make you happy, Jinx. Only when you are ready.”

“What if I’m ready now…?” she asks plaintively, spreading her thighs to show him a flash of wet pink.

“Then fingers should be a good warm-up.”

Not in the mood to argue with that logic, Jinx decides not to. Instead, she leans back again, cupping her breasts and gently rolling her nipples between the thumb and forefinger. Fawkes slips a thick finger inside her, eliciting a loud moan as her vaginal walls clench about the unfamiliar visitor. Using the thumb of his other hand to continue massaging her clit, he kisses the curve of her thigh and the bone of her hip, using a light tongue to trace over each small scar as if in secretive worship.

“I like that a lot,” she moans softly, bucking towards him. “Your tongue. Your hands. Everything.”

He responds by flicking his tongue lower, creating a stippling effect of warmth and wet saliva as he works his way towards her clit. Realizing what he has in mind, she spreads her legs to accommodate his head, letting him lap at her sex while his industrious finger crooks upward, causing a delightful shiver as he finds another wonderful bundle of nerves to stimulate. His tongue’s big, so big—just like the rest of him, washing over all of her with hardly an effort. Using broad, flat strokes of his tongue, he circles about her clitoris, never quite leaving her completely as he laps from the base of her slit, tongue almost slipping inside, around to the outer lips of her sex. Unable to control herself, she starts tightening her thighs about his head, crying out as she crests into a new peak, grinding her wet pussy against his face.

His one finger is already thicker than the two she normally uses to masturbate, but she can feel her vaginal walls tenting, making way to accommodate more, her body making the decision even before it reaches her brain.

“Give me another finger,” she begs, even with her muscles still clenching and spasming from climax.

Two is a bit harder, and she whimpers slightly as she feels her opening stretch to accommodate. But that is transient, compared to how pleasantly full it feels with _two_ dexterous digits within her, rather than just one. Rather than thrust all the way in, he goes slowly, teasingly dipping only an inch or so in at a time with shallow penetration. Finally, he slides them all the way in—almost to the knuckle—when she impatiently starts squirming down his fingers on her own volition. Gasping, Jinx just lies back to enjoy the sensation. He pauses his oral ministrations to kiss her belly, flicking his tongue to caress her navel. The hand that’s not busy finger-fucking her squeezes her right breast, placing his massive hand over hers.

“You taste sweeter than I’d ever imagined,” he rumbles. In this close proximity, she literally feels herself vibrate from his words, sighing in delight.

“Fawkes, please—now? Take your pants off?” she asks breathily.

“After you climax,” he insists, moving back downward to lavish his tongue over her clit. At this entirely reasonable request, Jinx acquiesces. It feels selfish to deny Fawkes—and herself—another orgasm, when he so clearly feels like giving…

Rocking her body side to side, she is panting, realizing that the rhythm of their breathing is almost completely in sync. Gasp for gasp, breath for breath, and moan for moan, even with him giving all the pleasure, and her just receiving it, it feels as if they are completely connected. The realization spurs another warm wave of delight, and she is crying, moaning, squeezing him between her legs and screaming, screaming, screaming….

“Ah… Fawkes! Orgasm! Your turn! Pants!” she demands, no longer the charming, joking Wasteland savior that Three Dog and the rest of the world sees. In the privacy of their own home, on this giant bed, she is just another horny teenager.

He obliges, almost tearing off his pants in his haste to free his erection. It springs forth, gently bobbing before her eager gaze. She leans in to kiss the tip, eliciting a guttural moan as he shrugs his way out of his Vault jacket before carelessly tossing it aside. Forming her right hand into a loose fist, she starts pumping at the base of his cock, trying to create the illusion of depth beyond what her pitifully small mouth can handle. Tucking her lips over her teeth, she can barely manage to fit the width of his shaft in her mouth.

“No. More licking. Kissing down there,” he moans, pulling his hips back.

Grinning, Jinx kisses him again, lapping her tongue on the underside of his dick.

“I have an idea. Lie down with me—no, not like that,” she clarifies, flipping herself over. “Like this,” she breathes, her head level with his groin as her feet extend toward his head. With their size disparity, this is not a true _soixante-neuf,_ but he quickly grasps the possibilities, kissing her ankles and inching a finger back into her pussy.

With all of his attentive loving, Jinx is eager to repay the favor. Even if unable to properly suck his cock (or at least not yet, she promises herself), she can kiss and lick, using her hands to twist up and down in a busy hand-job.

“I wish we had lube…” she sighs.

With a deferential cough, Fawkes offers “Well, I got some…”

“You sneaky man!” laughs Jinx, rewarding him with more kisses on his cock, followed by a long, wet lick. “You came prepared!”

“I wanted it to be good for you,” he offers by way of explanation, but Jinx is still laughing too hard to tease him for his reflexive embarrassment.

“Well, get it! I want it to be good for you too!”

As Fawkes rises to obey, she gives him a playful slap on the ass. Thick as his skin is, she doubts it is barely more than a sting; she is still rewarded by the widening of his eyes and a now-familiar purple blush. When he returns, she calls him on it.

“What’s the matter, Fawkes? Am I scaring you?” she asks, lying on her belly with her chin resting on her fists. One leg is kicked up behind her in a lively pose deliberately imitated from a prewar pinup.

“No. But you are much happier than I was afraid you would be,” he admits.

She cocks an eyebrow at him, smirking. “You thought I’d be chasing you for this long and then get shy?”

“Perhaps. You seemed intimidated…” he mimes downward, to his still throbbing erection.

“So? Nerves, that’s all,” she says brashly. “I want you in me, Fawkes. I want to make you feel good. I want to feel good. Hell, I want us to feel good _together_. That’s what this is about,” she adds boldly, trying not to let on that as a soon-to-be-ex-virgin, she actually has no experience with ‘what this is about.’

Hesitantly, he leans against her, squeezing her gently in a warm embrace that has his erection safely pointed to the side. “You don’t have to… I would be happy just being kissed…”

Jinx squirms out of his grip and rolls over, gripping her ankles and wiggling herself heavenward. “What do I have to do? Wrap a bow around it and yell ‘happy birthday’? C’mon, Fawkes! If it’s too much, we can always go back to using our hands and mouths!”

Rather than immediately mount her as she was expecting, Fawkes instead sits down beside her, sliding one hand under her back and lifting her upwards. “Sit on my lap, Jinx. I want you on top for this.”

She straddles his lap, legs slung over his thighs and his cock pressed between their bodies. Fawkes twists open the small jar of lubricant, revealing a clear, slick fluid that he starts rubbing along his shaft, making it glisten in the light. Eager to assist, Jinx presses her hand below his, stroking up and down with a firm grip. Leaning over to kiss the tip of his penis again—since he seemed so fond of it last time—she offers a gentle lick to the tender skin under the head of his shaft.

“Whenever you’re ready,” he breathes raggedly.

Jinx needs no second invitation, gripping his arms to lift herself over his cock. His hands encircle her waist, gently supporting her as she hesitates, lowering herself. The massive size of him pushes insistently against her, and she moans with frustration. Even slick and aroused, it is difficult to fit. Teasingly, tauntingly, his penis pushes against her opening, never quite managing to slip in. Finally, she just sits down on it, letting gravity do the work.

“Relax,” he whispers, kissing the top of her head as if afraid she might break. She, at least, is no longer afraid; caution has been replaced by a stubborn determination to complete this task she assigned herself. Slowly, painfully, she eases herself down. An inch, if that—and the stretching is immense, too dull and slow to actually be tearing her, even if her body is quaking with agony. But down another slow inch, working its way in, and it transmutes from pain to pleasure, the transition so subtle that she is not entirely sure where one ends and the other begins.

Heartened by this small progress, Fawkes lifts her up again.

“No, Fawkes!” she struggles helplessly, vainly attempting to shove herself down on his cock again. “I want it in me!”

“Soon, I promise. I just want to make sure we take it slow. Just the tip, first,” he grunts, sweat beading on his chest. She leans forward to lick him, salt and musk mingling on her tongue. His breathing is ragged, and she feels him slowly lift her up, down, just teasing her with those few inches of him in and out of her aching body.

She is whimpering, shaking, nothing but a bundle of lust and denial as he continues playing with her. One hand sneaks down, fondling her clit as Fawkes finally lets her slide farther down.

“Oh, yes….” Jinx whispers, finally feeling the fullness she has been hoping for. Hard, massive—warm and throbbing, aching but even that little bit of pain feels good. Fuck, she never thought she’d get off from the _pain_ of it. Even so, she cannot possibly take his entire length. Fawkes has to stop with a few good fingers worth of distance between her hungry cunt and the base of his cock, unable to fit the entirety in her.

“How does that feel?” he asks, almost gritting his teeth as if it pains him to ask.

“Wonderful,” she moans in response, eyes fluttering open as she examines him with a curious head-tilt. “How are _you_ feeling?”

“Terrified.”

Not the response she was expecting, and she blinks in surprise. “Why?”

“I feel…” He swallows, words coming out in short grunts. “I want you. But the part of me I try to control… it wants you too. I don’t know how well I can…”

Jinx’s self-satisfaction, previously high, takes a slight dip. A cold, unpleasantly clammy sweat breaks on the back of her neck. As much as she enjoys having his monster cock inside her, she is under no illusions that Fawkes losing control would bring her much pleasure at this point.

“What will help keep you grounded, Fawkes?” she asks, voice firm despite her frayed nerves.

“Talk to me. Your voice is… a chain for my sanity,” he whispers, soft as a prayer, gentle as a benediction. “Command me as you will.”

“Then I _command_ you, Fawkes,” Jinx states, keeping her tone steady, with just the faint crackle of authority she had noticed Sarah Lyons use in commanding her unit, “I _command_ you to please me. Keep pumping me. Use your hands to keep me moving, and I will tell you how fast I want it.”

He complies, keeping the rhythm going with one hand under her ass and the other on her back. Slow, gentle, with infinite tenderness, though his arms tremble and his eyes are dark. She continues playing with herself, nudging her clit to try and reach an even higher peak than before…

“Faster, Fawkes. I want it faster. Make my tits bounce,” she snaps, voice breaking into a moan as he immediately obeys, twisting her body ever so slightly as she continues pumping up and down his cock.

“Please, keep talking. I want your voice. I need your voice,” he grunts, the words slower than before even as his movements pick up.

“Ah… it feels so good, Fawkes. You feel so good in me.” The words feel strange, dirty—she never talked like this, and she would blush with how unnatural it feels except for how his hands tighten around her. Closing her eyes makes it easier, trying to concentrate on the sensations and drowning out her insecurity. She moans, letting out an involuntary gasp of mixed shock and pleasure as he suddenly bucks, sliding in even deeper than before. Not entirely sure what sort of dirty talk or speech that he needs, she just lets loose with an inarticulate stream of consciousness.

“I love—oh _fuck_. That feels—that feels good. Really good.” She hisses, nails dragging along his chest as she sinks on him, pain dancing close to pleasure. “You’re so big. Bigger than anything—oh _fuck_ , feels like you’re going to wreck me—“ she screams, voice rising in pitch as she comes explosively, almost violently, locking her legs about his torso and squeezing herself to him. Because the words might be stupid and awkward and clumsy and she might just _shrivel_ with embarrassment later but this is _now_ and she’s _orgasming_ , dammit!

Fawkes too is screaming, a primal roar that would sound more appropriate on a battlefield than in the boudoir. His hips thrust as he impulsively _slams_ her down, triggering a gasp of pain from Jinx as she feels too much of him inside, his entire length sheathed in her and her ass flush with his hips.

He immediately realizes his error as the timbre of her scream changes from pleasure to agony, pulling her off and laying her down on the bed. Kissing her frantically, he seeks forgiveness in her eyes.

“Jinx? Jinx! I am so sorry, so very sorry. I just… I was coming too, and then…” His voice is heavy with guilt, shock—and fear, staring at her wide eyes and listening to her ragged breathing as hugs her knees to her chest.

Jinx can already tell that at least; his ejaculate is thick and sticky, dripping out of her ravaged body in a slick pool on the sheets. Even mixed with her own juices, she knows that the sheer volume of fluid cannot possibly be all hers. And her body still throbs, battered with an internal ache. And so raw, despite all the lube and her own earlier excitement.

“I know, I know. Look, it was still fun, right? And we’ve both gotten worse while fighting off raiders,” she groans, curling towards him. Even injured at his own hands—or cock, her devious mind whispers—there is comfort in his presence. “Just chalk it up as a learning experience, Fawkes. For both of us.”

“I understand if you never want to do this again…”

She reflects he is ever noble, ever concerned for her, even with the ache and desperation so clear in his voice. A smile plays on her lips, affection winning over this transient pain. “I didn’t say that. Just… practice makes perfect.”

“I do not like to lose control,” Fawkes mutters ashamedly, continuing to kiss her belly as if courting forgiveness.

“Practice makes perfect. And believe me, I want _plenty_ of practice,” Jinx says, gently tugging his arm to lie beside her. He follows her insistent pull, fitting himself to her in a gentle spoon.

“So I am forgiven?” he asks hesitantly.

“Forgiven? You are to be fucking _commended_. For commendable fucking.” She nearly trips over the inadvertent tongue-tangler, and giggles contentedly. “Even the, ah, surprise finish could be fun if you just let me get used to it. How did you like it?” Ever the scientist, she is interested in fine-tuning the experiment for reproducible results.

“…there were things I was surprised to find myself enjoying,” he says slowly. “But I did like everything. Lying with you was far more than I ever expected to be able to do.”

“Mm. We can talk about those surprise things, then,” she whispers, a dangerous light in her eyes as she pulls him into another kiss. Despite her words, there’s not much ‘talking’ so much as kisses and lazy nibbles, with the occasional giggle and warm chuckle as they explore each other.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Link to extended author's notes.](http://cchipbiscuit.livejournal.com/2781.html)


	4. The Gift You Give Yourself

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fawkes knows exactly what he likes.

She moans and sighs, squeezing her thighs about his hips while clutching herself close to him. She starts to bite, but before her teeth can do little more than dent his green skin, he murmurs, “No. I like hearing you make noise.”

So she screams, caterwauls echoing off the metal walls of the Megaton house, toes curling and straddling his lap as he rocks her to another orgasm, his hands squeezing under her buttocks, physically lifting her when she can do little more than collapse with exhaustion.

“C’mon, Fawkes… aren’t you ready to come too?” she asks, voice slurred with contentment as she lays a kiss on his chest. Her sleepy gaze is pale and distant, blue-grey eyes unfocused and dreamy.

He grunts, “I _like_ making you come,” still lifting her up and down. A thin sheen of sweat glistens over his form, making him glint gold under the wan light filtering from the overhead lamp. The tousled red coverlet lies in crumpled testimony to the energy of their love-making.

“Fuck it, Fawkes. We still gotta _sleep_ sometime,” she murmurs, lips twisting into a playful smile. “C’mon. I just wanna…”

“One more,” he promises, lifting one hand to her mouth. Obediently, familiar with what he is about to do, she suckles his thumb, lips and tongue working as if trying to give him head. As soon as he pulls free, that same thumb goes down to her clit, cupping over her pubic mound as he starts delicately rubbing back and forth over the fleshy nub. This excites another sharp gasp, and she screams his name as she comes…

“Jinx—“ he groans, thrusting _up_ and in, her eager flesh accommodating him with no more than a brief moan of pleasure mingled with pain at the depth of his intrusion. She feels him twitch under her, then the sudden rush of heat as his sticky load fills her up, slowly trickling out the crevices of their joined bodies.

Panting for breath, she reaches for a bottle of aqua pura sitting on the floor. She does not even bother trying to squirm out of his lap, instead grabbing the bottle with a slight rocking motion. “Damn, that was fun. Sex with you feels like running a marathon sometimes.” This is said around small swigs of water, and she pours a small amount into the cup of her hand, splashing it over her chest with a sigh. The lingering droplets glint like jewels off her dark skin, emphasizing the slope of her breasts.

“I like making you come,” he repeats mildly, taking the bottle from her and draining the rest in one long swallow.

She chuckles, reaching up to stroke the side of his face. “You don’t always have to treat me like I’m made of glass, Fawkes. I’m a lot tougher than I look.” The thin scars and marks adorning her naked form silently underscore that statement.

“But you look so fragile.” He caresses her slowly, touching the curve of her calf and the line of her thigh, then moving up the swell of her breasts in quiet benediction. “I would never want to hurt you.” At over twice her size, hurting her would be as simple as forgetting his own strength. There is little padding to her, her wiry frame all taut lines and spare flesh, only the softest of curves to blunt the angles of her hips and belly.

Pushing against his chest, she raises one dark eyebrow. “Maybe I would like to be hurt a little. Ever thought of that?” Her tone is teasing, but her eyes are contemplative. “I might like that, actually. You’re sweet, but you’re always…” Her voice trails off embarrassedly, and she gives an awkward smile that makes her appear even younger than she already is. “You’re a little too good to me sometimes. You’re spoiling me.”

“Maybe you deserve to be spoiled.” He would be content to leave it at that, just kissing the top of her head and working his way down along her body, but she groans in protest.

“Fawkes, I mean it. I just… you’re always working so hard to please me. I promise you, the next twenty-four hours, we’re doing whatever you want.” An easy promise between lovers, sealed with a kiss and a flick of her tongue across his chest. “Hard, rough, whatever. I’m all yours.” An easy promise, but coming from a woman who _keeps_ her promises, regarding them as vows that bind—he almost shivers under her regard.

He loves her.

“I might have some ideas,” he admits. “But let us rest for now.”

She nestles against him, half-sprawling across his form and pillowing her head against his shoulder. Her hair tickles against his armpit as she nuzzles, but he tolerates it. Watching her sleep is a pleasure, and the sound of her breathing soothes him more than any lullaby.

* * *

 

Jinx wakes to warmth beneath her legs, thighs instinctively clasping together but firmly pried apart by a pair of large hands. Fawkes’ mouth is buried against her pussy, his broad tongue licking up and down in flat strokes that make her squirm, pushing herself first away, then towards him. He keeps her in place with the gentlest of force, holding her thighs and permitting her neither advance nor retreat. She loves his easy strength, the way his powerful physique is held in check through the sweetest of intentions.

“Fuck… oh come on. Just fuck me,” she begs, feeling a shiver wrack through her form. She moans softly, reaching down to stroke the top of his head. He shakes his head in response, the variation in movement eliciting another soft cry. He continues eating her out until at last she cries in orgasm, legs trembling and body spasming with delight as she hooks her knees over his broad shoulders. With her lying limp and content, he releases her legs, bestowing a kiss on her still-sensitive clit and trailing a path of feather-light brushes of his lips up the curve of her belly, ducking in the hollow of her navel and up to the small freckle on her right breast.

She groans in protest, gripping his shoulders and pulling him towards her. “I’m still empty, Fawkes. Fill me up.”

He just chuckles, kissing her cheek and pressing his cock against her thigh. “No. You promised whatever I wanted. I wanted to give you pleasure.” His arousal is unmistakable, his flesh firm and thick against hers, but he makes no move to enter.

“This was meant to make _you_ feel good.”

“I do. But my pleasure comes from yours.” He knows it might sound trite, but looking at her, he feels his heart swell. “And you agreed to whatever I wanted,” he adds as a reminder.

“Fuck…”

* * *

 

Several hours later, they have both eaten breakfast and Jinx sits naked in the bed, half-heartedly flipping through a book of poetry. None of the poems catch her attention the way Fawkes does though, when his shadow falls across her form and he gently clasps her wrist. “I believe you still owe me whatever I want,” he rumbles. She laughs expectantly, closing the book and reaching for his pants, but he pushes her hand away. “No. Sit on my face.”

He lies down flat on his back, shirtless but with his too-tight Vault pants visibly tenting. Jinx straddles his head, thighs pressing against his ears and her ass resting against his chest as she kneels over him. His hands squeeze under her buttocks, providing support and angling her into position so that her clit is directly over his mouth. Gently, he probes with his tongue, now using short, light strokes, delicately flicking over the tiny pearl of flesh. Squealing, she starts to lift herself, but he only raises his head to stay in contact.

“Oh…” she breathes, the book falling out of her limp fingers with a soft thud and rustle of paper.

“Recite for me,” he murmurs, breath warm against her labia as he takes a pause in his oral ministrations.

Poetry is the farthest thing from her mind right now, but she _did_ promise whatever he wanted. As her mind goes blank and she feels the heat pooling in her belly, she reaches for an old favorite, one she has memorized. “Nature’s first green… oh…” A moan interrupts that line, but when he whispers “More,” against her thigh, she tries again.

“Nature’s first green is go—oh—old… her hardest hue to hold…”

He kisses her pearl, his nose tickling against the curls of her pubic hair as she groans.

“Her early leaf’s a flower… oh, but only so an hour…”

His tongue is still light, but moves more slowly now, tracing patterns against her that she could almost _swear_ are letters, but it’s a little hard to concentrate on the poem, her orgasm, _and_ whatever he is spelling, so she is forced to ignore it. “So leaf subsides to leaf… so Eden sank to grief—“ Another loud groan interrupts that one, and her whole body is trembling worse than a leaf in a hurricane, and she feels as if she would shake herself apart if it weren’t for his hands on her body.

“So dawn goes down to day.” Each brush of his tongue, around but not actually _on_ her increasingly sensitive clitoris, is becoming more torturous. “Nothing gold can stay,” she at last grits out, tasting salt on her lips as she tries so hard to finish the poem before her orgasm sweeps her away, sweat dewing on her shoulders and scalp but now she is _coming_ and it is sweet relief after all that. Fawkes kisses her again, and it’s almost painful against her tender clit, but then he pats her ass and releases her.

She squirms down, about to hop on top of him and grind against his erection even through his pants, but he pins her to him with a firm embrace. When she kisses him, he tastes of musk and sweat, her own flavors playing off his tongue and lips.

“Spelled my name?” she asks muzzily, voice still soft and delirious.

“Among other things,” he admits, but he refuses to tell her what else. Instead, he kisses her, and she slips into her usual post-orgasmic nap.

* * *

 

When she awakes, it is to see Fawkes placing a blanket on the stairs, the thin fabric taut over the top of the first few steps and sagging in the middle. When Dogmeat sniffs at it curiously, the super mutant briefly shoos him away.

“Redecorating, Fawkes?” she asks, stretching languidly.

He grins at her, teeth flashing white in the dim overhead light. “Something like that. Sit here.”

She stands obediently, idly fingering the lingering wetness of her cunt. As much fun as all the cunnilingus has been, she still craves _penetration_. She likes feeling herself clench on things—fingers, her own or his, his cock—and feels frustratingly empty. Sitting on the edge of the blanket, she spreads her knees invitingly, letting him glimpse the still-moist flash of her pussy. “Want to do it here?” She follows the impish question with a dazzling smile and roll of her shoulders, making her breasts perk to attention.

“Mhm.” And with that, he leans into her thighs, pressing her shoulders against the stairs with one hand and as the other squeezes her breasts. The angle is awkward, the edges of the steps digging into her back even through the blanket, but the mild discomfort adds a little bit of spice, peppering the so-warm feel of his mouth on her pussy with the dull ache of her body pressed against the stairs, and she thinks she might even have marks later…

That only excites her more, and she is soon coming, screaming his name so that it echoes through the house.

When he releases her, she slides bonelessly down to kiss his neck. “Jericho’s going to have a fit. I think this is the most noise we’ve made during daylight.”

He laughs, the sound vibrating through her. “’We’?”

She blows a raspberry at him, her laughter lacing through his like ribbons in the wind. “Fine. Most noise _I_ made.”

“His main complaint is that you moan for I and not him,” he says serenely, face deceptively mild. She reads the teasing in his eyes though, and the playful smirk that he cannot keep in check. With an indignant squeal, she slaps his shoulder.

“Fine. I’ll try calling ‘Jericho! Oh Jericho!’ next time. See how _you_ like it.”

His grin widens. “I will wager you can’t.”

“What are we betting?” she immediately challenges.

Tapping her lip thoughtfully, he waits a few moments before tentatively suggesting, “First claim to read any new books?”

“Deal.”

* * *

 

Later, with Jinx leaning against the wall while Fawkes sits below her, lapping at her sex and squeezing her breasts, she calls his name again.

Despite losing the bet, orgasms make very good consolation prizes.

* * *

 

That night, they are in almost the exact same position they were that morning, with Jinx’s thighs spread and Fawkes’ face buried against her. She is crying and moaning, but also tilting her wrist, occasionally squirming to check the time on her Pip-Boy. With one last squirm, she squeezes her thighs about his face, wrapping her legs in a way that would crack the skull of a lesser man, but she is screaming as she comes…

“Fuck! Fawkes, your time’s over,” she groans, voice warm and throaty. “I wanna _fuck.”_ Raw desire and imperious command give her voice an unexpected strength, and Fawkes can do little more than obey.

He immediately unbuttons his pants, pushing the worn fabric down and letting his erection spring free. There is no need for further preparation as her hips meet his, thighs clasping him close and her heels drumming against his ass, urging him faster and faster as he enters her with a single smooth thrust. Normally, he is far too thick to breach her entrance so easily, but five episodes of nothing but cunnilingus leave her almost gushingly slick, and her impatience spurs him on. She is wet and willing, the soft squelch of him sliding in and out and his slick balls slapping her ass bouncing off the walls.

The last orgasm puts all the previous ones to shame.

Collapsed against him once more, she murmurs, “You planned this all along, didn’t you?”

Laughing, he admits nothing.


	5. Good Vibrations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jinx raids the Brotherhood's sex toy closet. Mostly to spite Bael. Predictably, the results are sexy.

Paladin Bael stands straight at attention, reminding himself to keep his knees unlocked even as his back remains ramrod-stiff inside the unyielding power armor enclosing his form. His gaze remains fixated on a particularly fascinating blotch of rust on the wall across from him, and he imagines if he spends enough time staring at it, it might start growing.

Fucking guard duty.

At least standing guard outside the Citadel gave him a chance to feel the breeze, look across the water and occasionally chat with the other Brotherhood soldiers. But _this_ is just embarrassing, guarding a seemingly innocuous stretch of hallway. A plain old ‘make-work’ light duty to those who don’t know any better, a pitiful demotion from his previous position. But to those who _do_ know better…

It’s even more embarrassing.

He is guarding the sex toy closet.

Not that Elder Lyons will ever call it that; it is the ‘Miscellaneous Prewar Technological Devices’ storage room, for ‘miscellaneous’ devices that, despite their innovation and scientific merit, simply have no function beyond the lewd and obscene. The sorts of things that enterprising young scouts might find in their travels, bring back, and either get confiscated or studied to plumb the depths of their lack of utility in the modern Wasteland.

Of course, once obtained… it is not so simple to dispose of them. Simply destroying the items represents the destruction of prewar knowledge; something the Brotherhood, even in their altered vision, simply cannot abide. Selling them to wandering traders (such as that unsettling Crazy Wolfgang, with all his innuendo regarding his ‘junk,’) would do little for the Brotherhood’s reputation. And simply leaving the storage closet unlocked and unguarded acts as temptation for the more lascivious-minded of the initiates to go exploring…

Hence, the lock. Hence, the guard. Hence, his current embarrassing position.

He never should have mouthed off to the mutie, he thinks forlornly. That was when all the trouble started. It had been bad enough to be clocked by a girl who barely stands five feet in height, but when the girl in question was the Lone Wanderer, and _she_ was friends with Sarah Lyons, _and_ even Gallows—fucking Gallows, the person who will go out to hunt and kill super mutants _in his fucking spare time_ —even Gallows somehow likes her…

He doesn’t even know if the Lone Wanderer ever asked them to cash in a favor for her. Or maybe just getting on the little girl’s shit list was enough to get him on Sarah’s shit list and get him a lecture on antagonizing allies of the Brotherhood—

Shit. Either way, here he is guarding the sex toy closet. What a fucking joke.

Like an evil demon summoned by dark thoughts, he even sees her traipsing up the hall. She’s dressed in some fucking merc adventurer outfit, thumbs hooked through her belt loops and laughing as she talks to the monster man that everyone calls her ‘companion.’ Bael bets she’s fucking him, too. At least she’s not wearing the armor Lyons gave her; dressing a Wasteland scavenger up in Brotherhood armor does _not_ make them Brotherhood to Bael’s eyes. Especially since she has her hair dyed like a raider, blood-red and half shaved in the most unladylike hairstyle he’s ever seen. Her eyes meet his, and she stops mid-sentence to cock her head at him.

“Hey. Thought you were off today,” she says in mild surprise. The super mutant just stays silent, a half-step behind the little Wanderer. The dog has no such boundaries, instead trotting up to sniff at Bael’s greaves. He hopes it doesn’t try pissing on him again.

“My duties have taken me elsewhere,” he grits, trying to decide if she is aware of just what he is guarding.

She shrugs, kicking one foot out. The soft scuffing of her heel against the floor sounds disproportionately loud in the otherwise empty hall, making him uneasy. “Huh. Just didn’t see you out by the entrance today, so…” She shrugs again. “What’s so important back here, anyway? Seems a bit of a waste to have a man in power armor guarding the mop closet.” Her eyes are pale and shining, far too knowing for his liking.

“Brotherhood technology,” he replies stiffly. “None of your concern, Wastelander.” He still remembers her metal-clad knuckles against his jaw, and wishes he had bothered putting on his helmet this morning.

Her eyes narrow at that, but she forces a smile to her face. It is far too bright and polished, too warm and patently genuine to be anything close to honest. “Look, I know we got off on the wrong foot before, but let’s try to get past that, okay? Let’s pretend you never tried shoving me off the gates or insulting Fawkes here, and I’ll pretend I never fed you a knuckle sandwich. Good deal?”

Bael neither confirms nor denies her odd request, instead locking his gaze back on that fascinating rust patch.

Puffing her cheeks out, she slowly exhales as if cleansing herself of all doubt. “Fine. Here goes nothing then.” She twirls in place, hair whipping against her cheek as she claps her hands to her face in mock shock. “My goodness! A stranger! Hello there, my name is Jinx! What’s yours?” Shoving her hand out, she pats at the side of his arm until, reluctantly, he takes the offered handshake.

“I am Bael. Hail and well met, Wastelander,” he grates in awkward mimicry of the more outgoing Brotherhood members. Surely she knows he cannot be anything but polite to her now, after all—not after she became an honorary member of the Pride, or became known as the girl to bring clean water to the Wasteland. This forced geniality only rubs salt on the wound.

She laughs like a child, oblivious to his seething. “Nice to meet you too! Say, have you ever—“

“Paladin Bael.” Bael recognizes the voice as Gallows, even before the stealth specialist walks into view. Outsiders might have difficulties telling Brotherhood members apart under their armor, but even if Bael did not see the distinctive marks (a few scuffs here, a carefully scratched set of notches under the chest…) only Gallows can sneak so quietly while in full armor. “Allow me to have a word with you.”

Shit. Somehow, he’s in trouble again. And somehow, he just knows it’s her fault.

* * *

 

Watching Irving Gallows all but drag Bael away by his ear, Jinx turns to cock her eyebrow at Fawkes.

“So…” she drawls, letting the syllable hang in the air. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”

“But Jinx, where will we ever find enough whipped cream?” the meta human asks amiably, the bass rumble of his speech sending a pleasant shiver through her body. His expression is perfectly deadpan.

Sticking her tongue out, she swats his arm playfully. “No, you goof. I just want to see what’s behind the mystery door…” She is already pulling a bobby pin from under her shirt, one of the half dozen she keeps clipped to the front of her tank top.

“Thieving from the heart of the Citadel is not a good way to repay friends,” Fawkes says disapprovingly, crossing his arms.

“Not _friends_ ,” she wheedles. “Just Bael. And I don’t want to _steal_ anything. Just see what’s so interesting back there…”

His mild frown is the sternest rebuke he can muster. “You are aware that curiosity killed the cat?”

“More likely that was the bombs. After all, irradiated cats only have nine half-lives...” Her voice trails off as she gives him a pleading look, crossing her legs and sticking out her lower lip. “C’mon. Please?”

Principles war with affection until finally, with a groan, he turns around. “Fine. You may wish to engage a Stealth Boy, and I will retreat to the dining room.”

“I love you _so_ much…” she murmurs, a grin stretching across her features as she pulls out a Stealth Boy. Strapping the device to her wrist, she presses the button to activate its field, bending light waves about her form. Now little more than a ripple in the air, she pulls a screwdriver from the front pocket of her trousers. Carefully angling the bobby pin into the lock, she jimmies the screwdriver into position, slowly twisting until she feels the click of tumblers sliding into place. The entire process is quickly done; little more time spent than if she had the key in hand. With one last peek down both sides of the hallway, she cracks the door open and eases her way in. Checking to make sure there is both a handle and a lock on the inside (and keenly aware that even her reputation with the Brotherhood won’t relieve her from any pointed questions if she locks herself inside), she shuts it behind her.

She taps the light on for her Pip-Boy, letting the pale white glow illuminate the darkened closet. It is little more than a cubby, narrow walls lined with metal shelves filled with boxes. Out of curiosity, she pulls one of the boxes out. There is no lid, so what greets her eyes are—

Penises. Of every shape, size, and color, including several not found in nature. In shock and wonder, she reaches in, pulling out a neon blue phallus with a ridged base. Then, battling between an entirely inappropriate giggle and a desire for more research—purely for science, of course—she sets it back, pulling out another one. This one is of some soft, pink rubber-like material, wobbling in her grip and swaying like some sort of obscene dancer. A little closer examination shows that there is a dial near the bottom, and she twists it to the side, curious to see what happens.

_Bzz!_

Nearly dropping it in shock, it takes only a few moments for Jinx to realize the potential of her new discovery. And from the dust gathered about, none of these have seen any use in _quite_ a while, so she feels no guilt in rummaging about for the best finds. She figures she can always ask Sarah why on earth the Brotherhood feels the need to keep a closet full of sex toys (because if they have been throwing orgies, _she_ certainly hasn’t gotten any invitations), but it is far more fun to simply explore. Judging by the lack of any inventory sheet, she bets she can pretty much waltz out with whatever catches her fancy. Fortunately, there are designs beyond the basic phallus to catch her attention.

Of course, not all the prewar technology is quite up to snuff; she immediately discards any objects that feel tacky or sticky to the touch, like ancient chemicals are slowly leaching through cheap synthetic material. She also quickly rules out anything that she cannot easily stuff in her pack—a restriction, alas, that forces her to leave behind an _interesting_ looking chair in one corner of the room, all smooth lines and oiled rocking mechanism.

Still… she finds more than enough intriguing items to make it worthwhile. Treasure trove hidden away in her pack, she sneaks out again, careful to relock the door behind her.

* * *

 

There is mischief in her eyes and a spring in her step when she rejoins Fawkes in the Brotherhood canteen. A passing initiate nearly chokes on his coffee as Jinx flings herself at the super mutant, kissing behind his ear and running her tongue over its outer shell, lightly biting the tender lobe between her teeth.

“You’re in a good mood,” he says softly, stroking his hand down her back. His thumb grazes over the wing-like bones of her scapula before tracing the gentle curve of her spine.

She makes a soft ‘mhm,’ but refuses to say anything else about her discovery until they are safely out of the confines of the Citadel. Fawkes has learned to read her moods by now, like words on the wind—ever changing, but still visible to a careful observer. Her eyes gleam wickedly, a playful smirk dancing about the corners of her mouth as she says goodbye to her friends in the Brotherhood. Gallows goes out of his way to apologize for Bael’s behavior, giving Fawkes a firm clasp on the forearm in a gesture more brotherly than a simple handshake.

When they leave, Jinx’s gait is loose-limbed and easy, hips swaying as if about to burst into dance at any moment. It’s the kind of thing that used to frustrate him, back when they first met—never quite able to understand the blurred boundaries she holds between friendship and intimacy—but now it frustrates him in an entirely different way. Laughing and innocent, but still moving like she is trying to incite every carnal fantasy he’s ever held…

The difference is now, he thinks she does it on purpose.

“So what did you find?” he asks impatiently. While he generally believes a calm heart must prevail, it is difficult to be calm when his diminutive companion giggles as if she stuffed an entire wrapper of Fancy Lad snack cakes in her mouth.

She licks her lips, the moisture making them shine under the unrelenting sun. “Something… fun.” Waggling her eyebrows, she gives a cheerful half-skip that sends pebbles flying in the dust.

“It would be well if you elaborated.”

“I think it’ll be more fun if I show you.” Despite that claim, the way she hugs herself, practically squirming with delight, makes him suspect she just enjoys having a secret.

“So when will I get to see it?”

“Tonight. I promise.” Her eyes are pale and glowing, shining like stars in the shade of her hand as she scans the horizon. “As soon as we’re home in Megaton and I get a chance to clean up a bit.”

The rest of the journey is spent in maddening silence—at least, silent on the mystery of what she has in store. She is more than happy to babble about anything and everything else under the sun, from wondering what deathclaws must have evolved from before the war (her hypothesis being that they had been bioengineered and designed as weapons, let loose after the bombs fell) to whether or not the agriculture program at Rivet City will ever succeed in making strawberries widely available. (Which she hopes; she confesses that strawberries were her favorite food from Vault 101’s hydroponics division.)

But on the subject of just what, exactly, she ‘liberated’ from the Brotherhood storeroom, she refuses to speak. Instead, she laughs and skates about the edges of the topic. If he didn’t care for her so, it would make him want to…

“Want to pin me down and fuck me yet?” she asks, skipping over a small stone. He can’t see her face, as she has hopped just out of the edge of his reach (a distance he is sure she calculated beforehand), but there is laughter bubbling under the genial words, and an extra roll of her hip before she peeks coyly over one shoulder.

“Absolutely not,” he denies. “Why would I reward you for your bad behavior?”

“Because you love me,” is her easy response, twirling to face him with her arms out, spinning like a bird on the breeze. “And why punish yourself for my misbehaving?” She runs her tongue over her lip, the soft pink startlingly pale against the darkness of her skin.

“You are insufferable.”

“And you are too much fun to tease. You’re just so… so in control of yourself all the time. So sweet. So tender. So when I get a little under your skin…” She runs her nails along the back of her own hand, just deep enough to leave faint white scratches gleaming under the afternoon sun. “It’s sort of exciting. Because then I feel like I get to see what really makes you tick. Plus,” she adds with an unashamed grin, raising an eyebrow at him. “I like when you take charge. Give me a good old-fashioned spanking. Bend me over a table and fuck me hard. Just use me like crazy.”

He groans, feeling his body respond to her words in spite of himself. The physiological responses of desire, yes; his heartbeat accelerating, a thrum pulsing through his veins as he feels the blood rush downward, his pants becoming uncomfortably tight. But he tries to keep himself calm, keeping himself grounded in the mental discipline that allowed him to endure his years of confinement.

“You are far too cavalier,” he says at last, lowering his gaze to meet hers. Her eyes are bright and deceptively innocent, pupils dilated. “You do realize I could… hurt you. Any time I lose control. Like that first time…” His voice trails off awkwardly, and he feels the distance of years and untold experience yawning between them.

“I told you, I liked it,” Jinx says gently, closing the space between them with a squeeze of his arm. “We both had a good time. And from what I’ve heard, well.” She shrugs, biting her lip as she beams a smile upward. “The first time is awkward for lots of people. And sometimes hurts just a little.”

“It would not have hurt at all if I hadn’t—“

She slaps his hand lightly, scolding, “Hey, hey! Enough of that. It was still fun. And we’ve had _lots_ of fun things since then. Don’t act like you always have to apologize for being, well, bigger.”

“I am starting to suspect you have a size kink,” he says, the intended joke falling flat due to his morose tone.

Squeezing his hand firmly, she challenges, “So what if I do? I first liked you because you made me feel safe. And maybe part of that’s because you _can_ carry me like a baby. But I wanted to kiss you and climb all over you even before I learned what you’re packing below the waist.” Her free hand ruffles through her hair, making the red plume stand up like the crest of some barbaric war-helmet. “I like what I like, Fawkes. And I’m not exactly going to apologize for that.”

“I never meant—“ The words die in his throat, and he gives a defeated sigh. She sighs too, shoulders slumping before she suddenly halts, pulling his arm. Small as she is, she can’t possibly stop him unless he lets her; but he always lets her, used to letting her have her own way. She pulls him down to her level, forcing him into a kneeling position, the grey grit of the Wasteland digging into his knees as she pushes her mouth to his. He parts his lips, and she sets upon him like she intends to devour him with lips and tongue. She is hot and wet, tasting faintly of salt but under it is sweetness, like Nuka Cola or ant nectar. Her arms twist around his neck now, pulling him closer and moaning as he wraps his hands around her legs, lifting her up and parting her thighs around the barrel of his chest as he straightens up.

Time pauses under the warm sunlight; it is just her body wrapped around his, him standing tall and kissing her deeply, madly, feverishly, thinking that at any moment this could all just vanish, a cruel fantasy spun by years of darkness and isolation back in his little underground cell… but her weight, while scant, is reassuringly real. The way she breathes against his cheek, breath rasping across the skin and the residual ache in his knees from pressing into the dirt, all of these are things he lacks the imagination to conjure. This moment is real. Everything is real.

When finally they break apart like waves dying against the shore, he dizzyingly notes that less than a minute has passed according to her Pip-Boy.

“I love you, you big idiot,” she mutters, pressing her cheek against his neck as if embarrassed by that confession. “I’m not always easy to love. I touch people too much. I’m nosy. I talk too much. But I love you, even if I’m a pain in the ass. At least I’m _your_ pain in the ass.”

He laughs weakly, chuckling as he squeezes her close, just gently rocking her back and forth in his arms. “I appreciate that.”

When he finally sets her down, the rest of the walk goes much more easily. That strange, almost-fight has drained much of Jinx’s mischief and allows for a more companionable silence. They reach Megaton not long after nightfall, the pale moon’s glow beckoning them on. When they reach the entrance of their Megaton house, Jinx immediately shoos Fawkes upstairs.

“Go read or something. I have to clean off the surprise, then I’ll get you.” She dances around the edge of their giant heart-shaped bed to grab two books off the shelf, not even bothering to read their titles before pressing them into Fawkes’ hands. Bemused at how easily she commands him, he obediently walks up the stairs, the metal panels echoing under his feet. Idly, he reflects that masochism and submission are two very different things; masochistic streak aside, she is always so _demanding_ …

He thinks back to that moment in the sunlight, and her hungry mouth against his. The way she felt, the way she always feels so warm and eager under his hands, never shying away from embracing him with the entirety of her form. The way her kisses feel like rain against his chest. The way her body curves along his, and how much he loves her.

Examining the two books she brought him, he decides against reading _Frankenstein_. Neruda suits his mood much better, the poetry feeding his heart. The copy they have provides the Spanish side by side with its English translation, and he likes tracing the parallels between the languages. Like puzzle pieces slowly fitting together, he maps the poems, each word forming a new piece in his linguistic construction. This is a book he does not want to share with the Brotherhood; fortunately, he doubts they would be interested.

Downstairs, he hears a high-pitched cry of “No, Dogmeat! Leave it alone!” followed by a canine whine. “Okay, good boy! Chew that instead!” Then her footsteps up the stairs, and her bursting through the door. “Fawkes, I’m ready! Come downstairs with me, please?” She bites her lip endearingly, hooking her fingers together and squeezing her breasts between her arms like a prewar pin-up. It’s a familiar pose, but no less charming for the fact he has seen it over a hundred times. He shuts the book, setting it aside and pulling her into his lap. Jinx moves into him, thighs spread as she nuzzles close, lips tracing the lines of his chest.

“Kiss me first,” he requests.

She happily obliges, head tilting upward and mouth already parted. This time, he takes the lead, squeezing one hand under her legs, cupping where the curve of her buttocks meets the flesh of her thigh. He can feel the heat of her groin against his fingers, and instinctively curls upward, grinding at her through the increasingly damp fabric. She moans against his mouth, thrumming like electricity as he nuzzles her lips. Then he bears down, slipping his other hand up the edge of her shirt, feeling bare skin and the gentle curve of her belly before she breaks away, breathing heavily and pushing to her feet.

“Not yet. Downstairs. Now. Please,” she adds, already undoing the buttons on her leather vest. He groans low in his throat, shrugging his shoulders out of the remnants of his vault suit and following her. She leaves a trail of discarded clothing, flinging the vest over the side of the stairs and pulling her shirt overhead, dropping it on the floor. Her boots are kicked off at the bottom, then followed by her pants as Fawkes blinks, looking at the items arrayed on the red blankets. A number of them are easily recognized as phallic shapes, even with odd attachments, but there is also a metal ball attached to a thin, curving loop, a plastic bead connected by cord to a thin grip, and a mysterious item that curves around two slender bulbs…

“What are these?”

“Sex toys!” she exclaims, bright and cheerful. Plopping herself beside them, she spreads her legs wide, letting him glimpse the pink flash of her slit as she eagerly wiggles. “Look, I cleaned them and think it would just be completely _fantastic_ to—“

“Am I not pleasing you?” he asks, wounded and hurt. Picking up one of the silicone toys, he hesitantly holds it by his erection, noting that it is both shorter and thinner than his own equipment.

Immediately, she rolls to her knees, kissing his thigh and running one hand over the tender flesh of his balls. “Love, _no_. That’s not what I meant. I just… I was thinking it would be fun. Variety. Something to do with you.” She rises to her feet, kissing his erection and working her way up his belly before squeezing close. “I know you like that one position, the one where I’m on top and leaning back so you can watch your cock go in and out…”

He nods, warm memories rushing through his mind. The way her thighs fit over his hips, and her tilting back, shifting her weight onto her hands so he can see her breasts bounce, then looking down to see his thick flesh pushing in and out, slick and vanishing into the tightness of her body like a dirty magic trick. His soft groan gives her further encouragement.

“So these are just… spice. Addition. Some things we normally can’t or don’t do.”

He picks up the metal bulb, hefting its weight and thinking about just where it should go. Shaped too awkwardly for good penetration, but a flared base; he finds himself eyeing the curve of her ass as he says, “I am listening.”

“So I want to use these with you,” she admits, her blush turning her cheeks from burnt sugar to dark rose. “I don’t want to put anything in or on me unless you approve it. And whenever you want to stop or slam your cock in me, we can do that.”

“I don’t _want_ to slam my cock in you,” he sighs, dick throbbing under the half-lie as she laughs. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

“So you won’t hurt me. You’ll be making me feel good, I promise. I’ll tell you if it’s not. But _hurt_ …” She bites her lip, voice trailing off. “I kind of want you to be dominant, for tonight. You don’t have to be sadistic, but I _want_ you in charge. I want you to take charge of my pleasure. Like that day when all you’d give me was oral—“

“I was not attempting to…!” Fawkes protests, ears burning. He can’t even bring himself to finish that sentence, choking on shame mixed with furtive desire.

“It’s not all spanking and leather and whips and chains. I just… I like when you tell me what to do. So I’m asking for that. Please?”

It’s the please that undoes him, her desire melting away his reservations. Because _yes_ , he wants to pleasure her, but he always feels so dirty, shameful for taking her innocent pleasures and bending them to his will, a way of having her allow him inside her body. He wants to fit pieces of himself and these toys into her, filling her to the brim.

But looking at her face, her lips half-parted with lust and her eyes glazed, he knows her pleasures are far from innocent.

So he leans in, kissing her lips and pushing her back onto the bed. “Fine. But I want you to promise that if you want to stop, or anything is too much, you’ll tell me.”

“Fawkes, I love you. Normally you have a harder time shutting me up than getting me to talk,” she chuckles, returning the kiss and crossing her wrists over her head with a sigh.

The first item that gets his attention is that odd little bead. Pink and egg-shaped, it looks positively tiny in his massive hand, but when he flicks the switch attached to its long cord, the egg starts vibrating. With a pleased grunt, he drops the switch, just holding the egg in his left hand. Her thighs are already coated with clear honey, slick lubrication leaking down as she tilts her hips upward. Slipping a finger into her cunt elicits a soft moan, then a louder one as he curls it upward. He gives a long, slow lick to her clit, flicking upward and over her wealth of dark curls before setting the buzzing egg directly against her clitoris.

The results are immediate, her body clenching about him even as she tries squirming upward, as wriggly and evasive as when he tries to give her oral. So he pulls his fingers out of her, spreading his hands over her belly and pinning her in place. She struggles against his palm, hips bucking wildly as he presses the buzzer deeper against her folds, tilting it so the wider portion of the egg disperses its vibrations.

“Oh fuck—!” she screams, and he resists the urge to laugh at the power of this new toy, his initial hesitancy vanishing in the strength of her orgasm as she writhes beneath him. He presses it firmly back to her clit, rolling the egg so that forms wide, teasing strokes as she cries again, screaming and digging her hands into the coverlet, hands forming tiny fists as she squeezes down. But when he tries to return the little egg directly to her clit, she groans, “No. It’s too sore right now.  It’s gonna chafe.”

So he sets the toy aside, flicking its buzzer off and planting a light kiss on the soft pad of her vulva. Still panting, she raises her hips.

“Didn’t say I was _done_ ,” she says muzzily, smiling like a fallen angel.

“And I thought you were trusting me to please you,” he mock-growls, pressing his mouth to her belly because he knows she likes his breath across her skin. She shivers delightedly as he reaches for the mysterious metal object, just starting to realize its potential. He presses the cool bulb into her wet folds, slipping it upward and into her pussy.

Groaning, she tilts her hips upward, making access easier. “Feels heavy.” The soft gasp does not sound like a complaint though, as she is still gyrating slowly, biting her lip with frustration as it fails to completely hit the desired level of stimulation. “Fawkes, this one’s not so much fun. Maybe try—“

Her protest earns a long, sloppy lick to her clit, making her scream echo through the house. “Trust me.” His mouth and tongue relentlessly bear down on the sensitive nub, even as she cries that it’s too much, too intense, but her lips are lying even as she arches against him, her orgasm crashing all about her and ringing in her ears. She is so distracted by the feel of his mouth on her that she almost does not notice when he pulls out the metal bulb. But she does notice when that same bulb gently presses against her the puckered ring of her ass. All it does is press; like a finger to a button, the cool metal now warm and slick with her fluids.

“H-hey.” Her voice is uncharacteristically weak as she shivers, drawing her thighs together instinctively. But with his head still between her legs and one hand pressing on her belly, she has little room to maneuver. “Fawkes, I never… not even with myself.”

“Do you want me to stop?” He looks up at her, gazing at her eyes half-lidded and her cheeks flushed, her hair plastered to her scalp and lips parted with desire. Equal parts trepidation and lust; he’s never found her so desirable.

Her eyes close as she groans, long and throaty. “No. Please don’t stop. Just—be gentle.”

“I’ll never be anything but.” He kisses her belly with that promise, pushing the strange plug against her tight hole. Gently nudging it back and forth, barely more than a soft throb against the sphincter, he feels her start to relax with the unfamiliar sensation. Eventually, he feels her asshole dilate, relaxing to accommodate the metal bulb. Thrusting just a bit more, he is rewarded by seeing her ass envelope it, practically sucking it in as if hungry to be filled.

“Ah…” She sighs low and sweet, head rolling to the side. “That feels good.” Her eyes are pale slits of blue, just barely peeping out under her eyelids as she watches him watching her. “It feels dirty when you look at me down there.”

Deliberately, he turns his gaze down, one finger closing through the outer loop of the base and using it to push inward. “I _like_ watching.” Jinx shivers as it thrusts in, the weight of the ball filling her rectum and softly, as if through padded gloves, stimulating the emptiness of her cunt. He watches her wet folds moisten even more, slick lubrication smeared all over her thighs and pussy lips. “I like watching you take things up your ass,” he murmurs, the dirty talk strange and heavy on his lips. But she seems to like it, giving another pleased shiver and starting to fondle her breasts, rolling the puckered nipples between her fingers. “I like watching you play with yourself.” Watching her is always a treat, her face both innocent and wanton as her practiced fingers immediately go towards whatever will bring her the most pleasure. She thrives on stimulation, excessive stimulation—and he loves to give it to her.

He’s very tempted to thrust inside her now, to fill her with his cock and ram hard and deep, pushing her limits until she gives that little half-gasp of pleasure mixed with pain and comes all around him, drumming her heels on his back and scratching his chest…

But watching her mouth hang open, breathing heavily and with her tongue just visible past her lips, gives him other ideas.  So he lets go of the plug, and takes one of the other toys.  It is a vaguely phallic rod with an upward-curving tilt, though it is a thing of sinuous lines rather than an outright penis shape. It is not a small toy, but it is significantly smaller—both thinner and shorter—than his own cock. So when he gently thrusts it into her, using it as a dildo, he is gratified to hear her moan with delight.

“I apologize for accusing you of having a size kink,” he says softly, still kissing her belly and running his tongue across her navel.

She giggles now, hands still cupping her breasts and squeezing them together as she wriggles. “I love you, you know. You’re so much more than just a big green dick.” Her head tilts back as she sighs lustily, working her way through a teasing litany. “You’re also a nice big tongue—“ He flicks his tongue directly into her bellybutton, deliberately tickling her. Laughing, she continues. “You’re a pair of strong hands. You’re warm arms and soft lips and everything else I love.”

His thumb slips across a set of buttons at the base of the toy, and he presses one curiously. Rather than the vibrations he expected, it starts thrusting in his hand, pulsing in and out to mime fucking motions.

“Hey, I like this one too!” Jinx exclaims, though it changes to a surprised yelp as he hits another button, changing the rhythm to a faster, almost rumbling motion. Intrigued, he continues pressing the button, cycling through various movement patterns before settling on a rapid, vibrating thrust that makes Jinx’s eyes roll back and her tongue hang out. Releasing the toy, he is pleased to note that it is capable of hands-free stimulation.

Both nervous and excited, Fawkes coughs to clear his throat. “I want you to roll over now.” His normal bass rumble succeeds in masking some of his trepidation, but she cocks her head to one side, eyeing him mischievously.

“Is that an order?”

“Yes.”

Her grin widens. “Then command me.”

Swallowing, he tries again. “Roll over for me. I want to—no, I am _going to_ fuck your mouth.” He loves the feel of her mouth on his cock, but has never gotten to actually come from oral alone. Instead, they use it as an appetizer, foreplay before rubbing his cock between her thighs or slipping into her pussy.

Her response is gratifying, lithe body twisting under him as he releases her. He has to touch his hand to the pulsar toy to keep it in place, and she moans as she feels the heavy metal plug in her ass shift its weight, bearing down on her cunt and amplifying each thrust of the silicone object. But she manages to make herself to an awkward position on her hands and knees, facing him as the toy continues fucking her. It is an undignified position, but he decides that’s part of the charm; his little dancer made ungainly and clumsy by her own desire.

Fawkes sits back on the bed now, spreading his legs and letting her crawl between them. With her ass still angled upward, he can even watch the base of the toy move in and out as she starts licking his shaft. Cupping his erection with one hand, she lathers her tongue up and down, using broad strokes to coat every inch of him from base to tip in a slick layer of saliva. Then she actually starts sucking, stretching her lips over him and using her hand to twist up and down, covering the length that she can’t possibly take in her small mouth. She has to use her elbow to brace herself, propping it against the meaty pad of his upper thigh and shifting her weight over him. He likes it, her weight almost negligible through his thick skin but reassuringly _there_. He twists his hand through her hair, the unladylike mane making an excellent grip, but keeps his fingers loose; gently tugging, rather than controlling. A not so subtle reminder that he _could_ just grab her and ram his cock down her throat.

But he won’t. He knows that, and she knows that—but there is still excitement in flirting with that danger zone.

She moans around his cock, her tongue tickling the sensitive glans and her breath hot around him. She’s getting sloppier, her strokes erratic as her head bobs up and down, lips plump and cheeks puffy as she continues sucking. He can tell she’s coming, body trembling, and decides to urge it along by shoving that toy just a little bit deeper. He gives it a gentle tap, and that extra centimeter of penetration does the trick, her hands shaking as she still tries to desperately stroke him to completion…

“Jinx,” he groans, one hand still twined against her scalp. “I want to—“ The idea feels wicked and degrading, but that’s part of why he wants it. He licks his lips, trying to gather the words for his desire.

She stops sucking for just a moment, barely more than a heartbeat as she draws back, kissing the thick vein pulsing under his cock. “You get to _do_ whatever you want, Fawkes. You _own_ me tonight.” It should sound lewd, lascivious—but her voice is so soft, and her breath puffs against his balls. It sounds almost like a prayer, and he re-examines that last statement.

Ownership. _That’s_ what he wants.

“I’m going to come on your face. Get ready,” he grunts, tugging her hair back. She makes a token mewl of protest, eyes already closing and mouth parted in preparation. His other hand goes down, forming a tight fist over his shaft and pumping rapidly up and down, the movement made easier by her generous coating of spit and love. With a shuddering roar, he releases a sticky stream of spunk all over her features, white globs dripping down over her cheek and oozing past her chin. Panting, he releases another spurt, though the volume is nowhere near as impressive as the first wave.

She sits there, still and obedient as he finishes emptying his balls. When at last he finishes, she opens her eyes and tentatively licks her lips, tasting the salt and musk of his semen. “It feels like so much more when it’s on here instead of down there,” she whispers, tracing a finger across a patch of come still sticky on her cheek and pressing it to her lips. She licks it clean and swallows, watching him through lowered lashes all the while.

He reaches past her, pulling out the toy that’s still thrusting, and flicks it off. Setting it aside, he decides they can clean up later. When he reaches for the metal loop of the plug, she shivers, shaking her head.

“No.” At his questioning look, she blushes. “I like it. I want to keep it in me tonight.”

“This wasn’t too…?” he asks, feeling hesitant even as he admires his own seed still coating her face like a form of abstract art.

“The only thing it was ‘too’ was too good _not_ to try again,” she sighs, crawling on top of him and beginning to curl her head against his shoulder. She pauses, then asks, “When am I allowed to wipe it off? I want to cuddle, but don’t want to get you all sticky too.”

‘Allowed’ seems like such a strange word from her; she who is always in charge, the one that Brotherhood paladins and Megaton residents alike recognize as the true leader in their adventures. But he likes it, feeling a strange swelling of pride.

“Just a little longer. I want to watch it fall on your breasts.” Truthfully, he wouldn’t mind if she wipes it all off right now, but he wants to see how much further he can go with this newfound power in the bedroom. Obediently, she stays sitting up, and only wipes her face clean on the blanket after the first drop of jizz hits the slope of her chest.

“You know, we still have all those other toys to try…” he says thoughtfully.

Her laugh is like cola and whiskey, sweet and burning. “I look forward to it.”

 

* * *

 

 _Epilogue_ :

When Bael finally returned to his post outside the sex toy closet, it was angry and upset. Gallows had given him a lecture ( _again_ ) on proper conduct around Brotherhood allies, and then assigned him to cleaning duties. _Cleaning duties_. Cleaning the mess hall or mopping the floors would be bad enough, but Gallows ordered him to clean the sex toy closet.

Goddammit, he didn’t become a paladin just to clean off a bunch of prewar perverts’ plastic penises.

But that’s what Gallows commanded.

So when Bael enters the closet, rags and bucket of water in hand, he pays close attention to the floor, the wall, anything _but_ the damn things he’s supposed to clean.

And he notices footprints in the dust, traces of a visitor to a secret place that _no one_ is supposed to enter or even know about.

Staring at the footprints—boot prints, more like; not the distinctive grooved lines from metal armor—he also notices how small they are. And now that he is suspicious about someone else visiting the closet, he looks at the disturbed dust on the shelves, some of the boxes that haven’t been put back quite in line with the ancient layers of dirt that built up around them…

 _Fuck it_ , he decides with a groan. _He’s_ not going to ask the Lone Wanderer to give them back.


	6. Spanking

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jinx finally coaxed Fawkes into spanking her for the first time.

She stretches across his lap, lazy and content with her belly slung between his knees and her elbows tucked along her side. Wiggling at him, she giggles at his choked cough.

“Are you sure about this?” Even now—even with her bare-ass naked and with his cock pressing warm and hard against her through his pants—he sounds so terribly uncertain, words halting and voice rougher than usual.

So she arches against him, gratified to hear his sharp intake of breath. “Yeah. I’m _really_ sure, Fawkes. I want you to spank me.” When his hand rests on the back of her thighs, up near the curve of her ass but not actually daring to touch her, she grabs his hand, placing him firmly on the swell of her buttocks. He feels hot, or maybe it’s just her, her flesh pebbled and nipples tight, shivering with anticipation as her pulse echoes through her ears.

“What if I hurt you…?” His voice trails, his palm hovering over that little triangle of space between her legs.

Spreading her knees and bumping back against him, brazen and wanton and _oh god_ it still feels a little strange and dirty mimicking the girls from _Cat’s Paw_ , but she _needs_ him to understand how much she wants this, so she says, “That’s the point. I _want_ it to hurt a little. It feels good when it hurts a little. And hey,” she chuckles, hoping the tremor in her voice shows _excitement_ and not trepidation, “try nudging a finger inside me. I’m already wet. Just _excited_ to do this with you.”

His finger presses against her labia, already warm and swollen with desire. Slowly, he traces against her, gathering slickness with a startled grunt before slipping inside. She moans as he curls down and into her, and she could almost _sing_ with joy, but she still wants something else.

“Can’t distract me that easy, babe. I want you to spank me.”

He laughs ruefully, not bothering to deny the charge. “What if instead I get every single one of your toys and use them on you?”

“Fun, but,” she twists back again, squirming off his fingers and propping her head on her palm, “do you not want to spank me? I mean, does it make you uncomfortable?”

“I don’t want to hurt you.”

“Hurt, or damage?”

He swallows, raising his hand to awkwardly scratch the back of his neck. “Damage, I suppose.”

“Then I’ll tell you if it’s too much.” Jinx sits up, wrapping her legs over his hips and pulling herself close so that her cheek rests against the broad expanse of his chest. “I would really like to try this. I _like_ when it hurts a little.” Grinning upward, she teases, “Think of it as obeying my every little whim.”

And she _loves_ the way he blushes, cock twitching beneath her as he releases a long shudder. “Then command me.”

“Kiss me first.” He promptly dips his mouth to her lips, gripping under her arms and half-lifting as they press together. His lips feel warm and soft, a little chapped maybe but still sweet as his breath mingles with hers. He groans, breath catching when she grazes his lower lip with her teeth, nipping to catch him as he pulls away. A soft ‘mm’ in the back of her throat coaxes him back, and they spend a few pleasant moments like that before she finally breaks away. “I’m going to lie back down. And you’re going to spank me, okay?”

He nods, but she waits until actually hearing “alright” before twisting back into his lap. Her hips fit perfectly over his knee as she resettles herself, feeling exposed but unashamed. He taps his fingers against her left cheek, barely more than a graze, and she bites back a disappointed groan.

“I want it a little harder.”

His next tap fails to even jiggle her flesh.

So she pushes herself upright, frowning as she sits in his lap with her back flush with his chest. “Watch.” Briskly, she starts flicking her fingertips against her thigh, savoring the crisp snap as fingers strike skin. “Hear the difference? It makes a nice noise, but not too much ‘ouch.’ Just a little sting.”

He hesitantly moves his hand to her other thigh, squeezing softly before setting up a rhythmic counterpoint. His fingers’ impact is duller, creating a strange percussive syncopation.

“Yeah. I like that.” She tilts her hand, curving her palm to shift to a more clapping sound. “You can hit with different parts of the hand. Fingertips, palm, or the whole thing. Different intensities too.”

“How do you want me to start?” Her head nestles against his throat as he squeezes close, and she rolls her shoulders against him.

“Slow. Light. With your fingers first. We can figure it out from there.”

He releases her with a sigh as she rearranges herself back over his knees, toes wriggling into the blankets and elbows propped beneath her. “Okay. Ready.” She’s surprised at how decisive she sounds, even bent over his knee with her ass in the air. But she’s _wanted_ this for so long that it’s almost déjà vu as reality finally follows fantasy.

The next spank—oh, _that’s_ more like it, a sharp ‘ _ah!’_ escaping as she lifts her hips to meet the next one. He strikes the same spot, almost the exact center of her cheek, so she moans a complaint. “You can vary a bit. As long as you stay low, over the thick fleshy parts, I’ll be fine.”

“You have no thick parts,” he objects, tracing his finger over the bony ridge of her scapula.

She groans, wondering how many snack cakes she’d have to eat until he stops fretting over her weight. “The padded parts. Whatever. You can’t exactly break my butt.”

“And you’re still alright?”

“Never better.” Her voice rises, pleading, “ _Please_ Fawkes. I like this.” She grinds herself against his leg in emphasis. She’s _wanted_ this so much that she adamantly _refuses_ to let him think otherwise.

So he continues a gentle pitter-patter of fingertip strikes, moving slowly across the swell of one cheek before drifting to the other. She sinks onto her chest, sighing in contentment as her eyes close. “Please, a little faster? I’d like it harder too.” The tempo immediately picks up, almost soothing in its even rhythm until she groans “harder, please.”

His hand stills, and she can just feel a puff of air over her ass before he swings down in a hard _thwack!_ that makes her yelp and twitch.

“Was that too much?” His hand rests over the stung flesh, caressing, the instrument of her pain now turned to comfort.

“N-no. I _liked_ it.” Her voice isn’t even recognizable to herself, soft and breathy with a sing-song lilt that sounds like it should come from some filthy movie instead of her, but _god_ that was good. She melts over him, whimpering in pleasure as her tingling nerves respond to his warmth. “And it feels good— _real_ good—when you rub me like that after.”

“Would you like some more then?”

“Oh _yes_.” Tilting her pelvis, she wiggles to offer a more tempting target.

He chuckles, the deep rumble soothing her as much as his hand. “Stop squirming then.” His other hand rests between her shoulders, warm pressure reminding her to stay in place. The next few spanks grow progressively harder, her pleased moans changing to yelps as she crosses her ankles, struggling to stay still. Each hard strike narrows her world, her eyes shut as she feels the blankets bunched in her fists, then only the heat of her flesh, and then only the burning sting of her helpless ass… Her back arches taut as she screams into the bed, muffling her wails against the blanket. He stops then, cupping her and apologetically asking “Would you like me to stop?”

The ‘ _NO!_ ’ rips out of her with such force that he blinks, and then laughs in disbelief.

“You are getting a little loud. Would you like a pillow?”

She swallows, her mouth feeling far too wet for her tongue. “Unh. Yeah.”

He pulls one close, fluffing it over her back. The cool softness feels lovely over her heated skin as she digs her elbows into the mattress, lifting her chest. He gently pushes it in place, allowing her to burrow her head and fists into the pillow. “Okay. Ready,” she finally says.

“Just tell me to stop whenever you need to.”

Something in the cadence of those words makes her cock an eyebrow, turning her head to keep the pillow from engulfing her speech. “You too. If _you_ want to stop, let me know.”

She hears him swallow, a dry gulp. “Very well.”

He starts with slow, light taps, as if afraid that her excitement cooled in the brief moments they spent talking, but he picks up faster than before, slaps crescendoing until she’s biting the pillow to stay quiet. Her world shrinks to just his hand striking her ass. Each falling blow narrows it further. From bed—hands clutching the pillow, cheek mashed into it as she leans forward—to his pants, just fabric catching her skin—and now just… not _pain_ , quite, but intense _sensation_ , leaving her raw and tingling, heated until he starts smacking with the entirety of his hand, a solid blow that rocks her into the pillow with a howl that brings him to a halt.

“Jinx? Are you okay?”

“That _hurt_ ,” she mumbles into the cushion, blinking away her blurry vision and tears wet on her cheeks. When did she start crying? Everything had been so _focused_ , just her poor buttocks and the top of her thighs, her pussy slick and juices smearing between her thighs. She even feels a damp spot on his pants, evidence of her overflowing arousal.

 “I am _so_ sorry.”

His voice trembles as he squeezes her, but he halts at her wailing “ _no!”_ Sniffling and with her shoulders shaking, she sobs “I _like_ it. Please don’t stop,” she begs, crawling back into position with her chest resting on the pillow. “Just rub me a little. I like more—more brushing, with the palm of your hand. Like you’re wiping away the pain.”

Obediently, he shifts tactics, sweeping away the hurt and leaving her ready for more. ‘More’ ends up being three more spanks, two on her left and one on her right, leaving her muffling her screams into the pillow before he stops, tracing his fingers over her reddened flesh.

“Ah… Jinx?”

His voice sounds so very far away. It takes a little time before she finds her tongue, blissfully languid. “Mmyes?”

“May I stop?”

“Are you okay?” Her tongue feels funny, moist and thick as she struggles to shape the syllables through her euphoric haze.

“Y-yes.” And her ass might be on fire, but it does not hide the heat of his embarrassment radiating off him as he stammers, “Could you—would you please suck on my—will you please suck me?”

She rocks to the side, propping herself on her hand as she flicks her tongue against his ribs. Then she presses her mouth over the wet skin in a tight seal, sucking hard enough to mark.

“No—not—“ and he struggles not to laugh, leaning back to escape. It doesn’t work since she simply tumbles bonelessly after him. “Please. Will you suck my cock?” He doesn’t stumble over that last word anymore, even though he still blushes.

Releasing her mouth with a pop, she grins lopsidedly. “Sure. Get naked.”

He rolls her off his lap, rising to hastily strip. His clothes fall into a small puddle, so unlike his usual tidiness that she giggles.

“Spanking really turns you on, huh?”

Fawkes shakes his head, ducking his shoulders sheepishly.  “No. Not the spanking. Your reaction.” Sitting back on the bed with his knees bent and erection jutting up, he coughs. “Please?”

Jinx settles between his knees with a wince as her buttocks rest against the blankets. Her feet slide under his thighs, pulling herself closer as she traces her tongue about his crown before flicking over the delicate triangle of the frenulum and lapping down the shaft. He moans below her, groaning when she wraps both hands around his girth.

She doesn’t really _like_ giving blowjobs, exactly, but she _loves_ the way he responds, the normally reserved Fawkes breathing hard and heavy as she wraps her lips over the tip of his cock. A shallow suck pulls the thick bulb into her mouth, and his thighs squeeze her ribs. His hands clench the covers, pulling them taut as they rustle against her skin. Dirty talk doesn’t come easily to him, but the way he trembles, lips parted and cheeks flushed, sweat glistening over his forehead—that’s worth all the four-letter words in the dictionary.

So she toys with him, cupping his balls with one hand as the other twists up the shaft, swirling her tongue against the sensitive tip to elicit more gasps. Her mouth stays soft, warm and enveloping as she bobs her head down, sucking as she pulls up with her eyes open to gauge his reaction.

“More, please?” he pants.

She chuckles, breathing against him as she returns to her ministrations. Even though she knows he likes her mouth on him, most of the real work comes from her hands, her elbows braced against his thigh as she rubs her thumb over the vein beneath his cock. She can’t possibly slide him all into her mouth, truth be told, just staying wide enough for him makes her jaw ache—but it’s worth it for the way his breath hitches, a soft babble of “oh god, oh yes, oh please,” from him as he tenses.

“Jinx, I’m going to come. Please, can it be in your mouth?” His eyes meet hers, pupils dilated as if to consume the iris.

She nods, just a quick jerk of her head and he sighs. His cock pulses beneath her hands, balls lifting as he releases across her mouth. She swallows instinctively, salt and musk hitting the back of her throat in a long spurt. He twitches, dribbling a bit more, so she sucks with her tongue pressed against his sensitive opening.

He gurgles laughter, collapsing back onto the bed. “I think I’m done.”

So she twists her legs out from his, elbow-crawling her way up to collapse across his shoulders. She shivers as his hand brushes over her still-stinging butt.

“Does it still hurt?”

“A little,” she admits. “I still liked it.”

He brushes dry lips over her forehead, his nose rustling the bristles over her scalp. “Did you climax?”

“I… don’t know.” She bites her lip, considering that answer. “I didn’t get all—all moan-y and scream-y, but _geez_ I feel relaxed. Like the afterglow.” Her gaze flicks up to his, and she kisses the hard line of his collar. “I think I did. Just felt different.”

“Would you like me to please you?”

Laughter bursts from her chest, but she catches Fawkes’ expression of affronted dignity. Hastily, patting his shoulder, she clarifies. “You _are_ pleasing me.” Cheekily, she adds, “And you _were_ pleasing me too.”

He continues rubbing her ass, palm pressing a circular pattern. “And you really enjoyed that?”

“It’s not like asking a third, fourth, or millionth time is going to change my answer,” she says gently. “Did it bother you?”

He pauses, wetting his lips as he shrugs. “I was not the one getting struck,” he demurs, tilting his face aside.

“Bullshit. Emotional hurt counts just as much as physical. And the difference is I _like_ the physical.” Sliding up to kiss his nose and press her forehead to his, she continues. “Were you uncomfortable?”

His whispered “yes” is so soft she strains to hear it, with only the warmth of his breath against her neck to show he spoke at all.

“Then talk to me.”

“I do not wish to hurt you.” He opens his eyes, staring at her pleadingly. “I love you. I am _afraid_ to hurt you.” Plucking her wrist between two fingers, he lightly touches their hands together, aligning them at the base. Her digits barely extend past the base of his fingers. “And if I am already hurting you, and get excited—“ He flushes purple. “You deserve far better than that.”

“Do you feel _guilty_ about liking it?”

He curls his fingers over hers. A long pause stretches between them while he chews over the thought. Then, tentatively, he ventures, “It was not that I _liked_ it. I liked your _reaction_ , but I did not enjoy _hurting_ you.”

“You said that already.” Jinx kisses his wrist before nuzzling up to his ear, pulling at the lobe with soft lips. “We don’t have to do this again, Fawkes.”

“We do not?”

She giggles at his surprise. “No. I mean, I’d _like_ to, but it can always wait. You being okay is more important.”

He releases a long exhalation, eyes closing. “I love you.” As she fits herself into the crook of his arm, he murmurs, “I would not be… _opposed_ to trying again. Just… slowly.”

“Always.”


	7. Dirty Words

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 'Wife' is such a dirty word.

“Cock,” she growls, mouth on his lips and hands in his shirt and his heart is hammering up his throat, choking him as he tries—and this is hard, so hard, harder than facing a deathclaw full-on and smashing its head from its shoulders, harder than walking through the Citadel without the little Wanderer beside him— as he tries fumbling for the words, falling back on the bed while she crawls all over him, sharp and beautiful and glittering with desire as she buries her nose against the curve of his throat, breathing deep…

He has to try.

“Cock.” The awkward repetition sounds so clumsy, so brutish from his throat, and he’ll _never_ sound human-smooth and gentle, but she laughs in delight anyway, taking pleasure in his embarrassment, kissing the purple flush crawling over his skin and licking him, tasting him, peeling him out of his clothes like fruit, like something sweet and stolen.

She bites now, teeth denting skin and he hisses low in his throat, his hands raised but stopping just inches from stroking her bare thighs. Maddening, beautiful, wonderful woman, why did she leave her shirt on but not her pants? Why would she—oh, and he groans now. _That’s_ why, so she can grab his hand and press him between her legs, his fingers raking through the curls as she moans, “Cunt.”

His lips freeze about the words, and he dares to press his other hand to the perfect curve of her hip, eyes wide and mouth dry and feeling so _wrong_ but so aroused and ashamed of how his cock pulses. “Jinx, I don’t—“

“Fawkes, c’mon,” she begs, and now she’s licking her thumb and wrapping her lips around it and sucking and it’s just not _fair_ , it’s not fair how she knows exactly what to do to make his primal urges roar to life. “I’d _love_ if you’d talk dirty to me.” She grins, knife-sharp and cheeks flushed and effervescent with wicked delight, like Nuka-Cola poured fresh into a bottle and fizzing over the top. “Cunt. It’s just practice.” Her wet thumb traces over the slope of her breast, fingers stroking the dark bud of the areola and pinching the nipple through the thin white fabric. It’s already swollen and erect, even more erotic for being obscured. “Trust me, I want a _lot_ of practice with you.”

Swallowing hard, he finally chokes out “Cunt,” catching his thumb over her clit and tracing slow circles over her as she rocks into him. He knows she likes it hard and fast, but two can play this maddening game. So she whimpers, squirming her hips and straddling his wrist, trying to entice him into faster movements, but it’s a game—and the goal is to make her so incoherent she is unable to embarrass him further.

But _her_ goal is pleasure, sweet and simple, so she shamelessly rubs her breasts against him, her clever hands—and he loves her hands, he thinks muzzily. They’re clever and deft and dance like angels over keyboards and are the perfect shape when she strokes his cock—slipping down, greedily playing with herself while she peeks at him from lowered lashes, just the edge of her teeth visible past her parted lips as she winks outrageously.

“Oooh, now for the hard stuff,” she teases, and her voice is warm honey but nowhere near as sweet. She slides herself down, so that he can just barely feel her slickness smear against him. “I’m _hot_ and _wet_ and ready to play, but not until you talk dirty. Try ‘slut.’”

He wants to roar in frustration, grab her by the hips and throw her over, elbows braced on each side of her and thrust deep—but if he does that, she wins again. Every victory comes on her terms, but at least he can minimize his losses. Fucking’s a lot like fighting with Jinx, harsh teeth and wet lips and blood pounding in his ears as she tears into him, leaving him raw and sated every time. Sometimes bleeding, even if it’s only psychological, shaking in vulnerability as she cuddles close and soothing, the aftercare perhaps even more important for him than for her despite his massive frame.

So instead he shuts his eyes, trying to reconcile the sweet, playful woman he fell in love with—and she’s still playful, yes, but so _demanding_ —with the lusty hellion who launches kisses like grenades, exploding in bruises of shock and sensation.

“But I do not _want_ to call you names. It’s degrading,” he whispers, heart racing and feeling so woefully inadequate. He loves her, he loves her and she does not _understand_ but he would worship her with his mouth and hands, making an altar of her body and laying perfumed offerings at her feet.

“Degrading for you or me? Because I _want_ you to degrade me a little bit,” she whispers, breath hot on his skin and shivering through him. “Call me your cock-hungry little slut, order me to bend over and spread my pussy and—“

And the worst of it is that he _wants_ to, he does, but the hard-won rationality in him is so terribly frightened at the thought, at slipping off the chains and entering that darkness. Neruda is poetry with passion and heat, but Jinx has a very different sort of poetry in the crudity, her voice like crystal chimes over the filthiest of phrases.

“I don’t _want_ to call you slut,” he hisses, and he is afraid, and he’s not even sure she would ever understand this fear. But she stops, kissing him slow and easy on the lips and melting against him, comforting as a familiar face in a crowded room, stilling the jangled noise of his heart.

“So what _do_ you want to call me?” Her tone is playful rather than arch, and he cracks his eyes open to see she has raised one eyebrow, winking at him. So he blurts out the first thing that comes to mind, the one word that’s been hovering on the periphery of his consciousness ever since they celebrated the first anniversary of his rescue from the vault.

“Wife.”

Her response is immediate, face going chalky and eyes flat as stones. She no longer kisses or licks, her lips instead pressed into a thin line, closed up in herself like an abandoned house. He knows he said the wrong thing. Unfortunately, he does not know why it’s wrong.

Feebly, he attempts to make a joke, hoping humor will soften the abrupt ache in his chest. “Was that too dirty?”

“Yes. Too dirty,” she says in cold, clipped tones. She abruptly rolls off him, curled on her side and clutching her knees tight to her chest. He cannot see her features, but the tension in her shoulders is enough.

Sitting up, plaintive and bewildered, he asks “Why? I thought… we are very good together. I love you.”

She answers the silent plea. “I love you too. And we all know how that song goes, right? ‘ _First comes love, then comes marriage, then comes baby in a baby carriage_.’” The children’s rhyme trips easily off her lips, though given a high, mocking pitch that only worsens the ache in his gut.

Gently, he presses one broad hand to her hip, letting his fingers trace over her belly. He swallows hope, wondering if it’s as simple as concern over his sterility. “If you want children, we could—“ _Adopt_ , he wants to say. He remembers how much she doted on Bryan Wilks, and the boy was absolutely mad about her in turn. If his aunt hadn’t taken him in, there’s no doubt in his mind that the little boy would have become the third member of their impromptu family. Or if she wants children of her own flesh and blood, he wouldn’t mind… _I wouldn’t mind at all. As long as you want them, they’re my children too. No questions asked, or we could pick a father together—maybe Butch, if you want someone familiar. Maybe Simms, if you want a man of good character. Maybe even Daring Dashwood if you want a hero’s blood intermingled with your own…_

But all those thoughts go unspoken, dashed out by her next words.

“ _No_ , I don’t want children,” she snaps. “But love, marriage, children—the whole thing is a _script_. It’s a bunch of roles that people _tell_ us we should want. You know what the Overseer told us back in the vault?” she continues bullishly, sitting up and twisting back to shoot him a level glare. Without waiting for a response—not that Fawkes would have dared interject—she provides the answer. “’Procreation is your civic duty.’ Marriage was a means to an end.” Her laughter is a fragile, brittle thing like cracked glass. “I love you, but I don’t see why we _need_ to get married.”

Swallowing, he tries to stay calm. She is still so painfully _young_ after all, and has never been anything but brutally honest…

“It is a social acknowledgment of our union,” he ventures.

She quirks an eyebrow up. “Social by whose standards? As far as anyone else in Megaton cares, we’re partners. Everyone knows we’re ‘taken.’” She mimes quotes around those words, lips twisted in disgust. “Hate that word. Too much ownership.”

“I thought you liked being owned,” comes his shaky protest.

She just laughs again, turning to face him directly. “What I like in _sex_ and outside of it are different things.” The knife-edge of her smile softens as she presses her lips against his arm. Mutely, he strokes her back, hoping the gentle contact will soothe her.

“I mean, just because I like you spanking me doesn’t mean I want you to pull me over your knee next time we’re at the Muddy Rudder,” she continues, the words mumbled against his skin. “But I hate the idea that I’m being pinned down, trapped, confined…”

 _Caged, imprisoned, captive_ , he mentally lists, unable to resist checking off the words. “I am not trying to trap you, Jinx,” he says instead, continuing to rub her back. Hesitantly, he brushes his thumb over her spine, sweeping up in a gentle line to the back of her neck. “I just want permanence.”

Looking up at him through lowered lashes, she chews her lip anxiously. This worries him more than if she had simply answered; this is her attempting to soften a blow.

“I love you, Fawkes. And I will always love you,” she murmurs, barely above a whisper. “But I can’t promise I will always be _in_ love with you, or that we will always be together. I mean, I’d like to, but I can’t _promise_. I can’t promise what I can’t control.”

Her promises are like vows, words chaining her to deeds—and not for the first time, he wishes she would make her promises more freely with him. But doing so would dilute their power.

“What do you mean?” he asks, trying to mask his injured pride.

She cuddles closer, sitting up to straddle his lap and wrapping her legs about his hips. “I am very different from who I was just a few years ago, Fawkes. I mean, I’m still _me_ , but some things change—experience. Thoughts. Beliefs. Who knows what the next few years will bring?”

“Are you afraid we will grow apart?” He feels, awkwardly, that she is cheating somehow, using his pleasure at holding her in an effort to ease his concerns.

“Maybe.”

“Do you think you would find someone better suited for you?” he asks, daring to voice the terror underpinning his initial reaction.

She pushes back against his chest, giving him a strange look. With her eyes wide and her hair in wild tufts, she looks absolutely endearing, and he has to restrain the sudden inappropriate urge to laugh. He thinks she would understand, but would rather not take the risk.

“Fawkes, why would finding someone else have to mean leaving?”

The words stream through one ear and out the other, and he blinks while trying to capture their meaning.

“Monogamy?” he ventures.

“Again, that’s another rule,” she says, one hand clenching in frustration. But it is a vague, clawing thing, rather than being directed specifically at him. Jinx bites her lip, hard enough for it to bleed, and winces at the injury. “I don’t think love _has_ to be limited. Love is not a starvation economy, if you will. I mean, does having two children mean you love either of them less than if you only have one?”

“No, but it does limit one’s time with either,” Fawkes argues, fighting the flush creeping up the back of his ears. As long as he keeps it in neutral terms, he can fight the primal urge to growl and press her close, snarling _‘mine!’_ against all and sundry. Not just because she hates possessiveness, but if he did this now—he’s not sure he could ever let go. “I like the time we spend together.”

“So do I. And I like your cock, but that doesn’t mean I don’t like using toys too,” she whispers, and then she is licking her hand, tracing a wet line from the tip of her thumb along the curve to her index finger, and then reaches down to stroke him.

Grunting against his own fervent desire, he schools his face to stillness as he protests, “But partners are not toys. They have feelings, emotions— and I may grow jealous,” he admits, but then she is moving on top of him, and she feels so tight and hot against him as she struggles, just a bit, to try and work his cock inside her. Caught in those first few blissful inches of penetration, he still can’t help the fleeting feeling that perhaps he _is_ just an oversized cock to her, a special toy that comes with hands and kisses to pleasure her on lonely nights.

“I love you, Fawkes,” she breathes against his skin, light and sweet as a benediction. She kisses his chin, lips pressing a line down his chest as she rocks back. He moans, and her breath catches as she slips lower, her body like a velvet embrace as she grinds down. Months of loving and playing and fighting (together, side by side against Enclave forces; and against each other, her fists tangled in the blankets and her teeth on his arm and _biting_ because even if it started as a practice fight, trying to improve her combat skills against a larger opponent, they both know it won’t end until he fights or fucks her into submission when he wrestles her into the ground) have taught him the topography of her body, her form more real to him than his own name because while he had chosen his own name, she just _is_. She is Jinx, soft curves and hard lines and bony elbows and all. And he loves her.

So he maps the familiar territory of her thighs, rediscovering the way she moans when he hooks his hands behind her knees, sitting up and groaning as he feels her contract about him. “I love you too,” he whispers, and she smiles at him now, sweeter than snack cakes, and maybe she catches the promise in those words too because she grips his arms and glides up, sliding her legs wide and wrapping them about his hips as she straddles his lap, holding tight with the entirety of her body.

The only thing he does not like about this position—and really, it is such a small thing compared to how tightly she holds and the way his hands can cup under her buttocks and how when she leans back he can see himself sliding in and out of her and that is just so _amazing_ and wonderful, like some prewar pornography— is that their heights are so mismatched that he can’t kiss her, which makes it such a large thing now because he wants so desperately to press his lips on hers, to feel her nip his mouth and moan against him…

But oh, she does moan. Loud and shameless, her cries echoing off the walls and bouncing through and for just a moment he is terrified that Dogmeat will start howling, but no, they let Maggie and Harden ‘dogsit’ him for the day. So they can be as loud as they want, which means Jinx can caterwaul to her heart’s desire and he roars when he feels her clamp down about him, squeezing him hard and near-painful with the strength of her orgasm, and then he’s _coming_ and it’s all wet heat thrusting into her, sterile sperm flooding her body as she collapses against him with a gasping sigh.

“That was… that was really good.” The words are pitiful things, dry leaves skittering across his lips as he wraps his arms around her, but she giggles softly anyway.

“Yeah. That was.” She peeks up, eyes jewel-bright and hair half-plastered to her scalp. She looks so ridiculous, but he wouldn’t have her any other way. Or—and here he pedantically corrects himself—he would have her any way she chooses, but _this_ is one of his favorites. “I love you. Please don’t ever forget that.”

Fawkes lies back on his elbows, gently pulling her with him as she releases her legs about his form, straddling him wide and slipping off what remains of his erection.

“I love you,” he murmurs, and she repeats it back, and so he echoes it again, their voices twining like the words to a favorite song. Then it’s more kisses and cuddles, her small hands smoothing away all the injured feelings while his fingers trace promises across her skin. Not much more talking, but the quiet ache of trying to memorize the rhythm of two heartbeats, so the love will remain no matter how their tempers flare or what roads they follow.

He will always remember her.


	8. Baisemain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A kiss on the hand. (Prompt fic; no smut.)

“And _that’s_ how we do it in the Wasteland!” Jinx cheers, crimson smeared across her teeth in a bloody grin. That’s her most obvious injury; the bruises on her body won’t show for a little while.

Butch spits, swiping the back of his hand across his mouth after. “ _Shit_. Where’d you learn to throw a punch like that?”

“Cross.” Jinx smirks while tousling her neon-red hair. There’s a finger’s-width of dark roots showing, shaved sides growing out; something Butch already noised his vocal disapproval about. This little play-bout—Fawkes hesitates to call it ‘practice,’ the way she and Butch laughed and tumbled about each other like over-eager puppies—had been over whether she’d re-dye it immediately (Butch’s choice, claiming she offended his aesthetic) or the next day (her choice, citing that as it was _her_ head it could wait a day. Fawkes suspects she said that simply to provoke Butch). But now she’s won the fight, according to whatever silly score system they came up with, and Butch nurses his pride as he mutters about scrawny smart-asses.

“Your hand,” Fawkes rumbles, clasping it between his thumb and forefinger. Her knuckles are scraped raw, shreds of skin peeling off. “Please do not pick at it.”

She makes a face, freezing with her other hand guiltily extended to do just that. “It’s _gross_.”

“Leave it be so it can heal.” He loves her hands, he truly does. Lesser poets may laud a lady’s eyes or hair, but she is glorious in her entirety, a galaxy of wonder made compact. Her dark hands gleam with the silver lines of old scars, and he traces his lips in mute journey from the tender pulse of her wrist to the roughness of her finger-tips, the hard calluses more precious than pearls because they are _hers_. Her hands are never truly still, flapping like restless birds or tapping furious melodies on invisible keyboards. But when they move with _purpose_ , dancing like butterflies as she hacks ancient terminals or sweet and steady while picking locks—

“You two are _gross_ , man.” Butch mimes retching.

Fawkes blushes and would drop Jinx’s hand except she squeezes close, crawling into his lap and straddling his hips, growling, “We’re about to get a lot more gross, Butchie.”

Somehow, her body pressed against his and her copper-edged mouth on his lips makes it easy to ignore Butch’s pained “fucking _Nosebleed_!”


	9. Denial

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fawkes likes giving Jinx what she wants. Eventually.
> 
> Kinks: orgasm denial, anal play, vaginal intercourse, cunnilingus. (maybe some others I'm forgetting, but there's the gist)

“Got any… sevens?” Jinx asks, wiggling her eyebrows.  Sprawled on her side with her cheek propped on the palm of her hand, she doesn’t merely _rest_ on the bed, but _occupies_ it.

Unlike Fawkes, who blushes and struggles to keep his gaze above her bare breasts. “No. Go fish.” Not that he hasn’t seen her naked before, but she loves how he never loses that sense of startled wonder.

She sets down her cards and rolls onto her back, arching and lifting her hips to shimmy her pants off. They snag on her ankles before she kicks, sending the wadded cloth sailing into the air. Now wearing nothing but a black thong (and she still owes Nova _so much more_ than caps and whiskey for the way Fawkes gulps at the sight) and an impish smile, she purrs “oh dear me, I’m starting to run out of clothes. What _will_ you do with me?”

“You are incorrigible.”

“But you love me.” Curling on her side, brushing her lips over his knee and tracing a path towards the seam of his crotch but halted by Fawkes’ gentle hand on her head, she murmurs “hey, why don’t we just forget the cards and…?”

His body trembles, a quiver of hesitancy and it only makes her want to wrap herself around him even more. It always amazes her how terribly uncertain he can be, makes her want to kiss his eyelids and rub her nose against his and promise him that however inadequate he might feel he’s _always_ her favorite.

She loves him like a lullaby.

“Would you like…?” She unbuttons his trousers with a practiced tug, trailing kisses over the lines of his belly and the dip of his navel, breathing warm and gentle against the swell of his cock. He smells warm—and ‘warmth’ is a smell, even if she can’t describe it, because ‘warm’ is like fresh bread and a long hug on a chill day, like wine-drenched laughter and ticklish little kisses on the soles of her feet—and pungent, like clean sweat and salt and sex, an aromatic portrait that she knows by heart and in her dreams.

 He is only one article of clothing ahead of her, his shirt lost two hands ago.

“No.” He coughs, the words a rumble in his throat as he rushes to explain “I would rather have my head between your legs.”

“You’re allowed to say ‘eat you out,’” she teases, kissing the base of his shaft before allowing him to pull her upright. She stands with her legs spread wide to straddle his lap, his head just above level with her chest as he kisses over her heart, her pulse fluttering like bird’s wings as she wraps her arm about him. And she is secretly, happily, _fiercely_ selfish, warm and fizzy with the knowledge that she gets to lie back and enjoy things tonight. Much as she loves Fawkes, sucking cock is _work_ and she prefers when things are easy as breathing, all hot flesh and slickness between her thighs.

He cups a hand around her back, thumb tickling against the bumps of her ribs and bending forward, butting his forehead to tilt her back and catching her on his palm to lay her on the mattress. Her elbows dig into the garish red covers, material worn smooth and probably due for a wash by now but _oh_ that feels nice as he kisses a gentle circle over her left breast, kneeling with his weight on his forearms and his lips pressing worship over her flesh. Jinx sighs contentment, wriggling her toes as she lays there like a happy pancake.

“You are _so_ good to me. Sweet and—ah,” as he wraps his mouth over the areola, flicking his tongue to dot the nipple, “thoughtful and— _ooh_ ,” because he spreads her legs now, catching his hand under the bend of the knee and kissing the exposed hollow, “and the orgasms are just a bonus, I swear.”

“Liar.” He leans in, forearm propped under her right knee and the other sprawling over his shoulder as he hooks his fingers under the front panel of the thong, tugging it aside so he can rub his nose against the exposed curls. “If there were no orgasms, I think you would leave.”

“No. Just jill off a lot.” She taps her heel against his flesh, wriggling herself skyward and bumping her labia against his mouth. “But you _like_ giving me orgasms.”

“And you like receiving them.”

The thong’s straps dig a tight line into her hip but she ignores it, melting against Fawkes as he laps at her with broad strokes of his tongue, circling around her swollen clit with only incidental licks until she reaches down to bat his skull, and _then_ he goes harder, firmer and she moans and pulls back as he sucks hard on that sensitive flesh, a sweet sharp ache and she _screams_ —

And then he _stops_ , his mouth hidden by her pussy but the corners of his eyes crinkle and _fuck_ she could slap him right now for the absolutely evil grin she _knows_ he must be hiding.

“ _Why_?” she groans, fixing him with her best glare and crossing her arms for good measure. Considering she’s still sprawled on her back, she suspects some of the effect is lost.

“You said the orgasms did not matter.”

“You _jerk_. Gimme gimme.” She reaches for his face, fingers wriggling in little grabby motions.

“In time.” His composure falters when she blows a raspberry at him. “Unless…? I am sorry. I thought you might like— you said you enjoy when I take control.”

“I do! It makes the peak higher. Just… don’t expect me to be happy in the meantime, alright?” She bites her lower lip between her teeth, feels the way it tugs the corner of her mouth and tweaks her smile. “I trust you. Let’s do this thing.”

He kisses the inside of her thigh, lips pressed soft and sweet before using teeth, denting flesh hard enough to make her gasp but not hard enough to bruise, a careful in-between learned through trial and error.  Then he returns to her pussy with slow, teasing licks, then shorter ones, tracing zig-zags and lines and she stops paying attention, instead squeezing her legs and _fuck_ she doesn’t even understand her own body sometimes, why she pushes away when she wants him closer, wants his breath stirring her pubic hair and his mouth on her and she’s _climbing_ and his hands trap her in place, unable to advance or retreat and at the mercy of his lips and that _tongue_ and—

“You fucking _asshole_!” she screams as he halts, leaving her aching and unfulfilled, untouched other than his iron grip on her thighs and his arms still bracing her open. Her hands clench futilely in the blankets, sweat sticking them to her shoulders and shaking in frustration. At his expression—and _god_ she’s such a jerk sometimes, because just because he’s damn near eight feet tall and could lift a car doesn’t mean he can’t _hurt_ — she groans and hisses through her teeth. “Fuck, I—I didn’t mean that, I just— _fuck_ I wanted to come so bad but you _stopped_ …”

“Maybe we should pick some… some other word. For when you truly have had enough. Something you are not likely to call in the heat of the moment.”

Her smart-ass mouth moves faster than her brain. “Jericho.”

“ _No_.”

“Fine.” And when jokes fail she always turns brittle, all her edges turned out to make knives out of her vulnerability. “One-oh-one.” At his startled look she laughs, feeling some unknown weight escape through her lungs. “Because I’m never going back there.”

“One-oh-one.” He exhales slow against her, hot breath stirring the fine hairs over her vulva. “Understood.” He chases away the seriousness with another kiss on her clit, pushing her knees so they frame her ears and she bites her lip to keep from groaning at the stretch but _fuck_ it becomes easier when his tongue flutters over her and she digs her shoulders into the mattress. Excitement builds warm and fluttery in the pit of her stomach, washing through her limbs and she breathes a high and gasping ‘ _aaah’_ as that orgasm dances ever closer. Inhaling sharp, air hot and dry over her tongue and down her throat as she is just about to crest that peak—

And he _stops_ again, pinning her coiled body beneath her own legs and his weight, mouth parted to flash teeth as he smiles, benign and gentle and _frustrating_ as she cusses another string. She smacks his bicep with tiny, impotent fists, hissing “come _on_ , how many more?” through the tears. Her limbs tremble, every fiber of her being vibrating with suppressed energy like a tightly-wound spring and _fuck_ if she can’t taste it like sweet metal-tang in the back of her throat…

“Two, I think. But first,” he runs his tongue over his lips, already wet and smeared with her slick, “allow me to blindfold you. You look so angry, I would rather not endure that.”

“Fair enough.” When he releases her legs and takes the stairs two at a time, she unbends and lays flat. The grating of metal on metal reaches her ears as he rustles through one of the cabinets and she realizes she _could_ easily get at least one orgasm before he returns…

One heartbeat from thought to action, pressing her finger over her clit in a tight circle and slipping her other hand between her legs, two fingers curling inside and pressing up against her inner walls, seeking that familiar spot. Easy and comfortable, an obscene squelch as she presses over a particularly slick patch and she bites her tongue to keep from giggling at this stolen moment. Just a little more, her fingers automatically knowing when to go fast, faster, _fastest_ , now—

“Shame on you,” he reproaches, leaning over the railing and shaking his head at her. She blinks her eyes open, staring up and neck prickling with a guilty flush. “I leave you alone for one minute, and this happens?”

“If it had been _two_ ,” and maybe if she talks to him like this she can keep him from noticing that her fingers are still on and inside her, moving so much more slowly, “a lot more would’ve been happening!”

“Shameless. And stop that.”

“Make me.”

His laugh rumbles through her, belly fluttering and cunt aching in response. “Is that your wish?”

She responds with a roll of her shoulders, rubbing her cheek into the mattress and peeking at him through lowered lashes. A long, breathy moan, deliberately vulgar as she squirms her fingers inside, curling through the silky smoothness of her pussy and picking up speed over her clit, trying to reach climax even as Fawkes thunders down the stairs. His growl’s a living thing, curling up against her ear and she imagines his lips on her throat, teeth at her neck, but then there’s no need to imagine as he seizes her wrists and yanks them over her head—too hard, her bones creaking and she winces so he softens the hold—pinning them to the mattress as he kisses her pulse. Her blood sings copper in her veins as she struggles, curling back her lips and mock-snarling while he dangles a faded blue bandanna from his fingers.

The soft cotton tickles her eyelids as he settles it over her skin, her eyelashes rustling against the fabric before he falters. “I apologize. I did not think this through. Will you let me cover your eyes?”

She flops acquiescence, heroically resisting the urge to tease. “Sure.”

He releases her hands and folds the bandanna into a strip, laying it whisper-soft across her eyes and tying a loose knot behind her ear. An experimental wriggle and the blindfold settles across the bend of her nose without falling off. His relieved sigh makes her giggle as she crosses her wrists again, then his hand settles across her limbs and he lays beside her, body flush with hers and her hip bumping his belly. Her thighs part, his foot nudging her ankle and his free hand pushing aside the thong to rub over her vulva. No direct stimulation yet, even when she groans and lifts her hips to meet him, but the blindfold makes her hyper-aware of his weight dipping the mattress so she tilts towards him, his breath tickling her scalp and _oh god_ his hands so big and warm, thumb and forefinger circling her wrists with ease and her thong digging uncomfortably into the cleft of her body until he groans frustration and tugs it down, over her thighs and out of the way.

With her hands held overhead and his leg pinning hers, she can do little more than squirm as he rubs her clit with delicate movements, kissing her breast and running his tongue over the areola. His lips close around her nipple, his breath stirring electric prickles over her skin and she groans through her teeth, her toes curling as it starts building again. In desperation, she tries hiding the usual signs of her coming, forcing her breath slow and even, unclenching her calves and biting her tongue to keep from screaming—

She yelps surprise as he not only stops, but _slaps_ her pussy, the sharp sting on the pad of her mons cutting through the hazy euphoria.

“Shameless.”

“Fuck you.”

“Soon.” He returns to his gentle ministrations, blowing cool air on her wet skin. She shivers, flesh pebbling as he slips a finger inside her, crooking to massage that spongy little mass and _god_ his finger’s big, a slow stretch that makes her ache to think of his cock sliding in. His thumb presses on her clit, gently rocking back and forth, more maddening than pleasing so she pleads “more?”

“No.”

She juts her lip at this unexpected refusal, starting to rock her hips side to side in an effort to seize more stimulation, but he slides his knee over her thighs, bearing down and forcing her still. Eyes shut beneath the blindfold, she can still hear the smile in his voice as he soothes “patience.”

“I’ll try this on _you_ next time, see if I don’t.”

He chuckles, shifting to ghost his breath over her collar and grinding his hand into her. Able to do little more than moan, even that is stolen away when he kisses her full on the mouth. She nips his upper lip, bumping her nose against his and struggling upward until he murmurs “if you keep fighting, I cannot finger your ass.”

She goes limp and pliant in a blink, feeling his body quake with silent laughter. “I thought that might get your attention.” His finger sweeps deeper into her cunt, his thumb still resting on her clit when he pulls out. Her underwear pulls taut as she spreads her knees, inviting him to probe lower, so he lifts his foot off her legs and tugs the thong completely off. His finger smears slickness across her thigh as he does so, and she gives a kick to toss the underwear away.

Slipping his finger back into her pussy and tracing a slow circle against her inner walls, he asks “why do you like anal so much?”

“Feels good.”

“Better than…?”

She bends her knees, feet flat on the bed and lifting to shimmy herself at him. He takes the hint, grip tightening on her wrists—gosh, he’s _nervous_ , and that’s so sweet—as he pulls his finger out, sliding down that tiny little distance between ass and pussy before probing against that tight hole. Legs spread, exhaling slow to relax, feeling him push just slightly, testing her resistance— _fuck_ it’s hard to talk but she owes him.

“Not _better_. Just different. Oh _fff_ —“ she hisses, unable to keep her hips up and falling back into the bed. “No, keep going. Just lost my balance.” She waits until his palm’s tickling over her curls and his finger’s back against her ass, still slick with her juices as he presses, her body relaxing, stretching as he slides in. She loves that little shock as it changes from resistance, the outer ring so tight it’s a wonder he can fit at all, to acceptance, almost sucking him in. Fawkes’ startled laugh makes her grin. Tilting back with her toes wriggling into the covers, she murmurs “would like to try this with your cock sometime.”

“I doubt we would fit.” She feels the bed dip as he leans in, the warmth of his body hovering scant inches above hers before he kisses her clit, his tongue relaxed as he laps with broad strokes.

Keening, high-pitched little mewls as she fights to stay coherent, she protests “not without _lube_. And warming up. We thought you wouldn’t fit _before_ and now look at us.”

“You are highly elastic,” he admits, tickling his chin over the dip of her navel before releasing her wrists. “But maybe later. For now, I think you deserve an orgasm.”

“Just one?”

“To start with.” He tugs the bandanna off, leaving her blinking as her eyes readjust. Then she rolls back, feeling his finger pop out of her before she pounces on him, her arm wrapping over his shoulder and her cheek bumping his chin before she kisses him hard and hungry, knocking him over.

With him on his back and her on top, straddling his belly and her pussy smearing slick on him, she grabs his wrists and pushes them into the mattress to frame his head. He laughs, shoulders relaxed in mock surrender as she mock-growls into his ear.

“ _Mine_.”

“Yours,” he agrees, lifting his chin. She swoops on his exposed throat, pressing her lips to make a tight seal as she half-nibbles, half-sucks to leave a livid purple mark that he tolerates with a soft groan.

“Pants off?”

He twitches his hands and she lets go, though he still has some trouble unfastening his pants as she remains astride him. She nuzzles his chest, amusing herself by tracing rude words with her tongue as he grunts, struggling with the zipper until she takes mercy and rolls off him. Without her to impede him, his trousers are soon off. When he attempts to fold them though, she swats his hand and giggles “c’mon, really?” Rising to her knees, she plucks them from his hands and sends them sailing with a triumphant laugh.

“You.” And he cannot even feign severity because soon she’s straddling him again, her hands behind his neck as he stays sitting. His erection presses bumps her belly and she grinds against him, knees clasped tight to his body. He reaches for the bottle of lube they keep in arm’s reach of the bed—one of his arms, not hers—and pours a generous portion onto his hand, rubbing his fingers together and releasing a faint almond fragrance. Jinx releases one hand, the other sliding to his shoulder as she holds it palm-up in supplication. He fills it with more of the slick fluid and she shivers at its coolness, then retaliates by wrapping her hand over the tip of his cock. He shudders at the shock, but she soon warms it by massaging it into the skin, her palm gliding over his flesh as she slides up and down, thumb tracing the veins of his shaft. She bites her lip, peeking up to watch his face as he swallows, a rumbling moan escaping his lips as she twists her grip, eliciting a soft gasp…

But he has his own plans, and she squeaks as she feels a suddenly slick, cold finger slide between her cheeks. Her ass, already warmed up from his previous visit and now with even more lube to make it easier, practically dilates to welcome him as he slides back in. Her eyes close and she leans against him, still stroking him as her cheek mashes into his chest.

“Oh _fuck_ , Fawkes. Please keep doing that. Oh…” and words escape as she groans, her hands slowing down because _god_ his fingers are big and even with just one inside she feels so full, her body throbbing and she could swear he can feel her pulse from inside. Her body heat already warmed up the lube so now there’s not even that shock of chill anymore, but just warm and wet as his finger rocks inside her.

“Please do not collapse yet,” he coaxes, his other hand sliding beneath her ass and lifting. “I would like to come inside you.”

And _that’s_ a thought to make her clit throb, making her scramble as best she can on one knee, letting him lift her over his cock and then slide down. His tip bumps against her folds, but then she wriggles just so and it becomes easier. Slick with lube and her so aroused, it’s not a matter of _wetness_ but just patience, her biting her lip to keep from groaning as her body stretches, accommodates—and they’ve done this so many times before but she still loves that little shock of first entry, the way his brow knits like he’s unsure that maybe this will be the time they won’t be able to fit… and then that sigh of relief, him exhaling a breath he probably didn’t even know he was holding as she grinds down.

With his cock stretching her taut around him and his finger in her ass, she feels him slide against himself, only her thin inner walls keeping the two separate. He tilts back and she looks up at him, hands resting on his biceps and using him for leverage as she gently bumps herself up and down.

“Play with your clit,” he whispers. “I would like to watch.”

So she licks her finger, dotting the tip with her tongue and tracing a line over the joint, down to the knuckle and sucking to get it nice and wet before she starts rubbing herself. Careful to keep her shoulders back—she doesn’t want to block his view of the show—it’s still more about _her_ pleasure, her finger high over the hood and avoiding the intense direct stimulation until she’s ready, because _fuck_ she’s not ready for that yet.

Another finger presses between her cheeks and her body goes still.

“I thought you wanted to try this with my cock? Is another finger so difficult?” His head tilts to the side, body motionless as he waits for her response.

“No, just—surprised.” She slides up, knees clamping tight about his hips and nails digging into the meat of his arm. “Want to try it.”

He kisses her forehead and crooks his finger, sliding the other one beside it. Slow and patient, gentle—her body aches, not quite a burn as he stretches her, tightness relaxing to accept this second digit. Once _in_ and relaxed it’s not too much different—no more painful, but more _full_ , making her more aware of her body’s reactions as she plays with her clit and he grinds into her, his cock filling her to the brim even without her swallowing him to the base. She never knew her how her body throbs as she climbs, the way her ass clenches when she plays with her clit, and oh _fuck_ the way he starts moving again, his fingers and his cock just slightly out of synchrony and she forgets to keep rubbing her clit because there’s just _so much_ stimulation already until he groans “ _please_ , I would like to watch—“ and so she starts rubbing hard, fast, frantic, sweat trickling down her neck and beading between her shoulders, trying to _come_ , and come, and oh _fuck…_

She keens high, sharp and wordless as she holds him close, body rigid in orgasm and his cock pulsing inside her. All the pent-up frustration of her previous thwarted orgasms releases now, crashing around her and sweeping her forward, a higher peak and _oh god_ like a liquid tingle through her limbs, swirling and eddying through her fingers and toes as she lets it all out.

He allows her to collapse like that, panting against him for a few brief moments as he caresses her hair, twisting a few strands around his finger before he slides his hand back under her ass. He opens his mouth, then gulps, but she doesn’t have to hear his question to know it.

“C’mon. Faster. Want you to come _too…!_ ” and her voice rises in a squeal as he slams his body into hers, breath hissing past her lips at the little edge of pain that accompanies it—jokes about elasticity aside, it still hurts when he goes too deep, but she _likes_ it, likes the ache and the way her body throbs, loves the way he moans frustration as his fingers curl inside her, the way he fills her ass and her cunt and his thighs slap against her butt as they piston together, her grip gone white-knuckled as she grabs his arm. He stares at her, eyes glassy and nostrils flaring so she whispers “it’s okay, it’s okay, c’mon, come with me…” and he shudders, whole body spasming as he lets out a strangled cry. She feels his climax spatter hot inside, dripping down between them and mingling with the lube and her own juices.

He collapses back and she lies on top of him, feeling his heart hammer beneath her cheek as he goes soft inside her. A tiny wriggle, and he’s out, their shared fluids dribbling into the covers. He pulls his fingers out of her ass and she feels the blanket tug under her foot as he wipes them off.

“We need to wash these,” she murmurs, pecking her lips over his nipple.

“Agreed.”

“And play with my ass again.”

A small smile bows his lips, eyes closed. “Agreed.”

She tilts her head, watching his expression. “Play with your ass?”

His eyes crack open, still smiling. “I believe you have an anal fixation. But perhaps.”

Nestling her head against the crook of his arm, she sighs loud and gusty, splaying her toes. “Would be even nicer if there were two of you.” She peeks up at him, watching the mottled flush creep up his cheeks, singing his ears. “One in front, the other behind, both filling me up…”

“Oh dear. You are very… energetic.”

“I know what I like. And I like _you_.”

From there it trails into sleepy chit-chat, thoughts and plans and taking bets on whether Jericho’s going to lodge another noise complaint. Jinx stakes fifteen caps and a backrub on ‘yes’ before realizing Fawkes has already fallen asleep. Chuckling, she kisses his wrist (and his other arm tightens about her, squeezing instinctively) before drifting off herself.


	10. Jelly

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt fic: Fawkes and Jinx do something silly.

Fawkes lowers his mug, tilting his head. “What are you doing?”

“Putting jelly on my toast,” Jinx replies with as much dignity as possible while slathering on a second spoonful of strawberry preserves. When a red glob looks in danger of dripping off, she sticks her tongue out to catch it.

When she tries for a third, Fawkes chuckles. “It will soon be more jelly than bread, I fear.”

“Ooh, this  _ scares _ you?” She grins wickedly, tongue sticking between her teeth. Hair in a puffy halo, finally gone natural but still dyed bright red. A sticky smear on her lower lip, eyes fizzing with delight and her voice dropping dangerously sweet. “ _ Oooh _ , terrifying.” The third spoonful drops in place. She licks her lips.

He gulps, a familiar flush running up the back of his neck. Too flustered to realize she’s flicking a fourth spoon at him until it strikes his chest. Too shocked at her wasting her  _ favorite _ food to realize it’s not a waste until she’s pounced on him, clamping her hands on his shoulder and her knees around his thigh. Too awe-struck with delight to do more than laugh as she play-growls, threatening, “Now, we can do this the  _ easy _ way or the  _ hard _ way. If you do  _ exactly _ as I say, I’ll lick the jelly off you. If you try to fight…  _ more jelly for you _ .”

And really, what else can he do but agree?


	11. Bedtime Stories

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fawkes says no, then gives Jinx a bedtime story.
> 
> For the tumblr prompt "I wish you would write a fic where Fawkes tells Jinx a story."

She’s all soft breath and limbs, tangling her arms around his neck and knees straddling wide across the wall of his chest. He’s kissing back as best he can, one hand spanning her back and the other still holding his page open in the book he was reading, but finally turns his head away from hers as her lips drift lower, sprinkling kisses across his jaw and his neck and he knows where that southward path will lead if he does not stop her.

“Ah… not tonight? Please?” And he prays she knows it is not denial, nor lack of interest in _her,_ but sex is not always his preferred activity.

Her head pops up, mouth blurry at her own abrupt transition. “Unh? Sure.”

Just like that, she stops. Folds herself small and lays next to him, cuddling into the curve of his shoulder as he puts a bookmark in place.

The warmth of her body is a pleasant thing-- hand over his chest, the way her breath puffs against the side of his chest-- but he can still feel the thwarted heat between her legs, an over-warm press in his side. He releases a breath. “If you would like to touch yourself, I could hold you…?”

“Nah, it’s fine. Really.” She twists her head, craning up to look at him with a smile folded beneath the crinkle of her nose. “Tell me a story?”

And this is intimacy too, just as much as any amount of moaning.

“Well…” His voice trails as he sorts through various tales he’s read, snippets of fairytale and ancient myth. “Once upon a time.” A safe enough start, and as Dogmeat curls up across his foot, he thinks he’s found his thread. “There was a girl. A woman,” he corrects himself. “A woman who fought monsters. She cast her bullets and won peace for the world, delved lost paths and forged new ones.”

“‘Fighting for peace’ is still the dumbest thing,” she mumbles.

“Hush, you.” He kisses the top of her forehead. “You asked for a story, and I am telling you one.” Licking his lips, he continues. “Path-maker. Truth-seeker. Friend-finder. Where she walked, legends grew.”

Fawkes relaxes as he feels her breathing ease against him, her embrace slipping loose as she slides further towards sleep.

“And she fostered them. Took those little seeds of legend, watered them with hope. Fed them stories, passed weapons and tales to those she helped. Eventually, those legends bore fruit-- a world of genuine glory, where monsters no longer flinched at the shade of her passing because there _were_ no monsters. She went from fighting for peace to having nothing to fight, no more monsters lurking in dark corners. She could finally set down her weapons and go home.”

There may be no villains or challenges, no lurking wolves or kindly fairies--but he sees the shape of the story, knows the Grimm’s tales and their bloody roots, the warnings laced with fantastic narrative.

But this is a softer world, a gentler one-- even if he can only make it so with a story.

“But what about her boyfriend?” Jinx murmurs, sleep-foggy. Barely stirring from his arm.

“The whole world loved her. She hardly needed one more.”

“Bullshit. Love you.”

“And I love you.”

He does not know if she will even remember this, come morning. But he kisses her forehead again and eases out from her arms to turn off the light, then slips back into the warmth of the covers and tucks her in next to him.


	12. In the Palm of Her Hand

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jinx makes a suggestion. Fawkes is alarmed. They compromise with her working her arm inside him.

She bites his neck, growls into his skin and straddles his chest. An aching stretch of her inner thighs, but worth it for the way he rumbles laughter. He could curl his fingers over her hands, swallow them up against his palm, but lets her pin him into the rumpled covers instead.

“Rawr. Rawr rawr rawr,” she continues. Mimes indignation when he fails to swallow his chuckle. “ _Rawr_ ,” she says insistently. Aims for his lips but slips, kissing the edge of his mouth instead. Mash of skin over teeth, lips plump and swollen.

“Help, help. So fierce.” Fawkes raises his chin, tilts back to expose the paler skin of his throat, Adam’s apple casting green shadow. “I yield.” So utterly deadpan it makes the teasing more obvious.

“Good. Now, as victor…” Lets her voice trail, drags her teeth across the underside of his jaw. “Something something spoils.”

“Oh dear. I am lost to your lascivious urges.” His voice rumbles her mouth, sends echoes down her clit.

Jinx twinkles wicked delight, winking as she sits up. “Yep. Lick me?” Words muffled as she pulls her shirt overhead, balling it up and tossing it aside. It hits the chair with a soft thump of impact, falling to the floor. Already hitching down her pants.

“With pleasure,” Fawkes says. Voice warm, warm, warm as the rest of him. All radiant heat and comfort, broad hands circling her waist, fingers touching one another as he lifts her. Turns her sideways on his chest, her foot passing under his chin before joining the other side, knees spilling over his ribs. Hooks one massive finger into her waistband and tugs her pants and underwear off as one.

God, she can already smell herself-- warm kind of musk to it, vaguely sweet and smoky. Always knows her smell from his, the way his has a rounded fullness to it, toasty on the back of her tongue. Loves wrapping herself up in him, tangling limbs and scent. Would wear his shirts to sleep, if she wore anything at all.

She flops herself loose, allows him to flip her over. Sets her knees wide as he rests her thighs alongside his face, feet pointed back flat over his chest. Spills her forward, clumsy, awkward-- raises her hands, ready to catch herself but he’s already caught her, with one hand on her shoulder, his thumb on her breastbone. Other hand cupped under her ass, lifting her and keeping her from pressing all her weight on his mouth.

Fawkes breathes deep through his nose-- she feels the tickle of it over her pubic hair, giggles. He starts with kissing her thigh, dry press of lips and almost chaste if it weren’t for the nudity. Then mouth on her folds, tongue parting her and she reaches down with one hand, sets a finger on either side and pulling open. Nice and easy, slick over his chin and then oh fuck, fuck, fuck, loves the way he laps big and broad. Covers her in one massive lick, all the way from cunt to clit and so _wet_ , wet wet wet, easy to forget where his tongue ends and her slick begins.

Can’t stay quiet-- doesn’t want to. Not when he’s pulling noise out of her, reads her moans like music. She squeaks, gasps-- his tongue hardens, sharper thrust over her clit, something swirly and she’s melting, bubbling, noisy with orgasm and grinding against him. Like to smother him with her body if he weren’t holding her up, and when she looks down at his closed eyes, the skin crinkles, smile hidden beneath her as she comes, comes, comes--

World dissolves in color, darkness. Finally blinks her eyes open, all the jagged crystal edges still sparkling off her. Fawkes looks up at her, topaz glint and wordless question.

“Good, good. _Real_ good,” she says, muzzy and sweet. Like cotton-candy, fluffy in the head. Wants to cuddle, but doesn’t want to be _done_ yet. “Still want you to fuck me.”

“I think that can be arranged,” he says. Scoops her aside like a precious thing, mouth wet with her slick. Rolls to spoon her, and she wriggles down against the swell of his erection.

Fabric chafes soft against her bare ass, so she rolls to cup him through his pants. “Wanna try something different.”

“And what is that?” he asks. Hard throb against her palm. An answering pulse between her legs.

“I want you in my ass.”

A long pause. Silence broken only by the refrigerator’s hum. “What.”

She gnaws her lip, squirms to face him. Nose to nose, so close she might go cross-eyed. His eyes blank, brow crinkled. “I want to try anal.”

His gulp’s audible, pupils darting. Searching. For escape maybe, except more bewildered than fear. “I don’t-- I don’t think we can-- I don’t think that we will fit,” he says, finally. Words tumbling slow, like stones rolling downhill.

“Didn’t think we were gonna fit for the other stuff either,” she points out. Resists the urge to tease, then changes her mind. Pops her tongue out, an obscene slurp as she mimes a blowjob. He blushes purple, mottling when she parts her mouth in a moaning ‘O’. She completes his mortification by thrashing her hips in vague semblance of a pelvic thrust.

She finally takes mercy when he turtles within his own shoulders, chin buried to his chest and shoulders drawn up to his ears. Kissing his nose, she says, “Lots of lube, yeah. Fingers first. Maybe some toys.” A delicate wriggle of her hips. “I like toys.”

He unhunches, lips pressed tight. Uncertain. “I know, but that is still a very-- we have a significant size disparity.” An awkward smile, not enough teeth showing. Still compressing himself small. “I admit I do not understand your fascination with that.”

“It’s only got like a bajillion nerves. And I like the pressure, the fullness.” Hooks her foot over his hip, drawing herself close. “I think it would feel good. And if you’re not sure, maybe you could try it?”

“Try…?” Then the realization hits and he _blushes_ and it’s _beautiful_ , big man like him all knock-kneed and adorable.

Can’t stop giggling even as she kisses him, scrunches her nose and rubs her cheek against his. “Yeah. My fingers would feel real itty-bitty to you, but could try and see what that feels like. And turn-about, right? For all the times you’ve put your bits in me.”

That makes him choke, gasping on laughter. Wheezes himself still, arms quaking around her. “Well. That is quite an offer.”

“Only if you wanna, though.” Because fuck if she’ll rush him, when he always takes his time with her. And she wouldn’t mind being rushed once in a while, but then again it’s not rushing if that’s what she wants, is it?

Thoughts tangled, snarled like so many loose threads. Just waiting for an answer, something simple to cut her loose. “Like, I’d rather get fucked than fuck you, but if you want to, I want to make you feel good! And if you don’t wanna, that’s fine too.” Slip-slurry of the tongue, not even sure she’s making sense anymore. Just wants him to know she loves him, wants him. Squeezes her hands tight, nuzzles up against him. Beat of his heart against her chest, drums through her. Ever-so-slightly out of sync with her own heart’s rhythm, pulls echo from her blood.

He strokes his hand over her back. Soothing, melts the lines of her spine. Could just curl up with him and cuddle, really. Happy way to spend the rest of the day, but he says, “I am willing to try this. It is not something I have ever fantasized doing, but I would like to understand you better.”

“Ooh, romance. You know how to woo a girl,” Jinx says, batting her eyes. Giggles, relief as her belly uncoils. Pushes her palm flat against his chest, all her shoulder into it-- can’t even rock him, but he rolls obligingly onto his back. Feet flat on the bed and knees spread, so she crawls on top of him and strips him with a vengeance. Fumble-fingered with the buttons, hands shaking with excitement and muttering under her breath as he shrugs out of his shirt, then planting herself on his belly as she undoes his pants. Not helping so much as knocking into his elbows, copping a feel when she can and generally making a nuisance of herself.

Fawkes finally rolls his pants off. Slower than he would have done on his own, but Jinx justifies it to herself by grabbing his socks. Tickles the toes, pulling and rolling past the ankles as he growls, sits up with a lurch and grabs her. One hand scooped between her legs and under her pelvis, the other on her shoulders. Sets her aside like a puppy and removes his own socks.

She sits demurely, knees tucked together beneath her. Meek and doe-eyed when he glares.

The glare dissolves. It always does. Always will. Because he never meant it to begin with, his smile always a heartbeat away.

He coughs once, into his fist. A clearing of the throat. “Well. If you get the lube, perhaps… we could start with me on my back? I’d prefer to be facing you.”

“Uh-huh. Same,” she adds with a quick grin, twist of her lips. “I really like watching your face during sex, and I want to see you touch yourself.”

Coaxes him onto a cushion, though he insists on laying a towel over it. Towel bunches, creases as he settles himself over it, cushion squishing beneath. Then some extra time as she rummages for the lube, remembers they left it upstairs and has to tiptoe past Wadsworth’s supply closet. Conscience prickles, but she soothes herself with the reminder at least it’ll be the _cleanest_ closet in Megaton by the time he’s through. And beats the butler-bot flying around while she and Fawkes are getting busy.

She skips down the stairs, half-empty bottle in one hand and other hand up for balance. Plops between Fawkes’ legs, giggling and shaking the bottle upside-down. Rewarded with a squelch of lube into her hand, massages it to skin-warmth and lets it slick between her fingers.

“Trying for your whole arm?” Fawkes asks, one hand pillowed behind his head and the other resting on his belly. All sharp lines and angles, hard muscle and vascularity writ large. Little padding to him, no matter how soft his words. _Big_ , yes, but nothing spare.

Jinx sticks her tongue out. “Nuh-uh. Unless you wanna. Druther too much lube than not enough.” Reaches up to pat his hand, leaning into him so his erection presses her belly. Solid warmth, sends a flutter through her. Thighs already slick, might be easier to just shimmy on top of him and have sex that way, but wants to see this through. So she squeezes her hand to his, fingers laced between his and smears lube into his palm. “C’mon, baby. Touch yourself.”

He circles himself loosely, thumb and forefinger linked. Tiny motions with his wrist, no art to it. Too busy watching her.

Jinx leans back, sits cross-legged. Knees stacked on feet, slips a finger down the cleft of his body. Likes the smoothness of him, the soft. Tender parts of him, from less exposure than his hands or his arms. Presses the pad of her finger down, searching-- bites her lip. “Um. Easier if you pick your feet up a little?”

He obliges with a hitch, knees drawing back and feet rising. God, he’s big. Never appreciated that strange blankness of skin between balls and ass. ‘Perineum,’ a textbook definition stuck in her head even though this is no longer textbook by any definition. Exposes the dark crease of his hole, and the sheer scale of him means when she slides her finger down, presses to the rim, there’s little resistance. Finger so small against him.

Eases in, lube-slippery and warm. Like he’s drawing her in, making it hardly an effort. Except his breathing halts, hovers. Suspended in his lungs. So she asks, “How does that feel?”

“Strange. Not bad, but different.” Wets his lips, a falter in the loose up-and-down stroke of his hand. “A small pressure.”

“Okay. I’m going to start moving then, if you’re okay.” Waits for his nod before rocking forward, sliding in slow. First joint, second-- a tiny pause, a tightening that relaxes as she flutters her finger, curls up. Down to the knuckle now, and he’s soft, warm, so _strong_. Not tight, exactly, but firm. Dares to press a second finger beside the first, a breath of hesitation before the outer ring relaxes and that slips in just as easy.

“Two fingers. Wow,” she breathes. Leans forward, bends to kiss the base of his cock, runs her tongue along the vein running beneath his shaft. Ignores the aloe-medicinal taste of the lube, secretly glad not to be sucking cock tonight. Always makes her jaw ache, even if it's worth it for the way he moans. “Takes me a lot more work to get two fingers in.”

“You are much smaller.” Face neutral when she peeks up. Indecisive, an uncertain crinkle between his eyes. “This is still very strange.”

“Anything that feels good?” she asks. Cups his balls with her free hand, presses her thumb below. Easy to read him with everything scaled large-- pulse of his body, the way his scrotum draws up and his frustrated sigh.

“When you stroke up, inside-- that is nicer.”

So she curls, twists her palm and probes until she feels a spongy mass. Presses-- and _that_ makes him gasp, a staggered exhale and she halts until he murmurs, “That feels nice.” He alters the speed of his hand-- and Jinx realizes he’s matching her, stroke for thrust.

So she pushes, keeps the pressure steady as she tries going faster. Meets his gaze with a flush and a wink, heart tap-dancing its way up her throat. “Bet I can add a third finger.” Giggles, splashes her words out. “Bet I can fill you up real good.”

“I imagine you can,” he says, voice soft with wonder. Sprawled back, all the muscles of his belly soft. Lightning-tremors of tension when she massages upward. “I would like if you tried.”

She bundles the third finger in, even easier than the second when she scissors her fingers apart, slides into the warm welcome of his body. His eyes shut to slits now, soft glitter as she watches, and she watches him. Quiet, drawn in-- his mouth’s where he shows himself, jaw slack and lips loose. Too much self-control to let go.

“You like when I fuck you, baby?” Jinx whispers. Lips dry, mouth dry. Too loud and she might crack this precious moment. “I like fucking you too, all open and vulnerable like this.” Pulsing in, out. No friction to it, slippery and wet. Thinks about pausing for more lube, but no. Not yet. “Nice to be giving, for a change. Way you throb around me, like I’m feeling your heartbeat.” Giggles bubbling up her throat. “And you say _I’m_ stretchy. Bet I could fit my whole fist in you. Bet _that_ would get you to make noise.”

Fawkes shuts his eyes, groans-- starts to think she pushed too far, apology on her lips but he opens his eyes again and smiles. “Do you want to?”

“Kinda, yeah. If you’re okay with it.”

He nods, pulling the hand from under his head. Grips behind his knee, drawing back almost level with his chest. Belly creased. “If you like.”

Fuck, and that’s an _invitation_ , his cheeks purple and cock throbbing, a trickle of lube glistening down his ass. She laughs, turns into a squeak as he _clenches_ around her and his smile means that was _deliberate_ as she slides her hand out. She blows a raspberry, pours more lube onto her palm. Rubs it around to coat her knuckles. Another pour--smears it to her wrist, lets it trickle down her forearm as she shapes her fingers to a taper, thumb tucked against her palm. Aerodynamics, right? Not so much a push as a press, her fingers sliding into his ass. Easy, easy. Gentle until the knuckles, and he gulps but doesn’t protest, his hand sliding up and down as he continues stroking himself with a tighter grip. She twists, spirals. The knuckles pop in with slow synchrony, and he shudders long and sweet. Easy past that, practically swallows her down to the wrist.

“You know, my wrist’s ‘bout as thick as your cock,” she says. Soft. Conversational. “So really, this isn’t too extreme.” Flutters her fingers for emphasis, all warm and firm.

“It puts our regular sex into perspective.” Not sure that’s a joke or not until she catches the crinkle-crease of his smile. Ha. “Good thing you’re not flexible enough to fist yourself. Or you may have no further need of me.”

“Ooh, I think that’s a challenge.” Sticks her tongue out, holds it between her teeth. “I love you and you know you’re so much more than a big green dick.” Curves her hand, searches-- finds that spongy spot again, direct pressure that makes him gasp. Hand flying over himself, thighs trembling. “I love the way you lick me, touch me, hold me.” Forward, back. Hand relaxed and palm stroking the lobe of that sensitive place. “Most of all, love the way you love me.” His mouth open, breath ragged. She tilts sideways, kisses his calf. Faint green-soap smell of him still soft on his skin. “You like how big my hand feels?”

“No. Yes, but-- not the size, not the stretch. Pressure is nice, but. You _reach_ better with your hand. Better length than your fingers.” Poor Fawkes, so flustered. Struggling to keep his words even, a harsh-edged whine up his throat. “Please, I am close. So close. On the edge.”

“So what will it take to push you over?”

He throbs, contracts. So warm, almost uncomfortably so. Pulsing all around her. “Keep moving. Talk to me.” His hand a blur, skin-on-skin slap against his groin, movements erratic.

So she pushes. In. Out. Down her forearm, halfway to the elbow before he gasps. His toes clenched, feet still in the air. Knuckles pale, gripping tight on his leg. She thinks she might make it to her elbow, maybe, but that insistent whine again and she pulls out. Never completely, no, but to the wrist. In and out. Slower than her own preferred rhythm for sex, but better to be gentle, first.

“Fuck but you’re wonderful,” she groans. Leans back, watches the slippery sheen of her arm vanish up him. Strange and powerful. “Feel good too. All warm and ripply. So glad I get to do this with you. Roll around naked, kiss you. Get to see you in all your parts.” Swallows, a lump of pride and joy and want, want-want-wants him to come with her arm inside him, wants to know she got to please him the way he always pleases her. “I love you Fawkes, love you so much. Come for me, baby.” Voice breaking, all her tangled desires caught in her throat. “Wanna see you come.”

A strangled gasp, vein throbbing beneath his shaft-- his jaw clenched, even that little morsel of sound an accident as he gulps, twitches. A spurt of come across his belly, milky on his skin. Another. Her arm enveloped in smooth contractions, pulsing waves that crest, peak. Eddy down, and his head rolls back. Long exhale. Limp. Dick softening, let loose to flop on his belly.

Jinx pulls her hand out, another soft pop of relaxing flesh as she eases past the knuckles. Cheeks aching, takes a moment to realize it’s because she’s grinning so hard. “See? Butt stuff can be _amazing_.”

He nods, eyes closed. Sheen of sweat on his forehead. “I definitely see the appeal.”

Needs to wash her hands. Still slippery, lubed up. But not just yet. Leans forward, sets her palm on the bed and laps the semen coating his belly. Salt and skin and lust warm in her mouth. Tongue soft, broad. Makes the muscles in his belly jump at the tickle. She swallows, blows a raspberry on his tummy and rolls aside before he can retaliate.

She washes up in the kitchen, the splashing water almost drowning his tentative, “I would still enjoy doing this with you receiving, but it is not something to rush.”

“You think I don’t know that? It’s _my_ butt,” she retorts, wiping her hands. Almost flops into bed next to Fawkes before remembering Wadsworth is still locked up. Goes upstairs, skipping every other step and releasing him from his sex-exile. Sexile?

Wadsworth shows no ill-will for his captivity, but politely whirrs and offers a bottle of purified water. She glugs it on the way back down, snuggles in with Fawkes. He’s already modestly covered himself up, crooks his arm so she can nestle against him.

“I still fear hurting you,” he begins.

She stifles a groan against his ribs, bops her head against his shoulder. “I get that. But it’s _my_ body, and I can always tell you if it’s too much.” Tart-sweet now, because he’s still so sweet even if he worries about all the wrong things. “If you don’t want to, that’s fine. But stop trying to _protect_ me when I don’t need it.”

He sighs, nods. Dry kiss on her scalp, warm breath stirring her hair. “I apologize.”

“Accepted,” she says. Kisses his chest to prove it, snuggles up. Falls asleep before he does, his heart beating lullaby beneath her ear.


End file.
